A Little Business
by Blue Tears
Summary: AU: Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe. MR
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Little Business

**Rating: **R

**Summary:** Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe.

**Notes:** Originally attempted to write this for Speedrent (Challenge: _a character has the chance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result?_) but had an ADD moment, however the idea struck me again so here it is…little poetic lisence, nothing dramatic, just info you can't 100 get from the play. Oh, think The Family Man…kinda.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not my characters.

* * *

**A Little Business**

It was brand new. Freshly developed and already rolled up neatly inside a shiny new tin. Even the footage on the film had only been shot a month or so ago. A small smile pulled up the corners of Mark's mouth as he gingerly pried open the container. Glossy celluloid slipped neatly into place as Mark threaded it through the old projector he had rigged up rather haphazardly in his room. After double-checking that the film had been correctly loaded into the machine he flipped it on. The telltale sound of film flipping through the body of the projector filled the bedroom, speeding up until the still frames blurred together, creating a moving image of Roger and Mimi on New Years.

Grinning like no other, Mark watched as the large image of Roger projected onto his bedroom wall offered the Mark behind the camera an open bottle of cheap champagne. As the young man handed over the alcohol his lips began to move, rattling off a list of resolutions. Mimi was molded against his side, thin arms wrapped tight around his waist, staring up at him with big brown eyes, so obviously head over heels that Mark almost felt a twinge of empathy. He knew exactly what it felt like. To see that boy in all his glory, pouring his heart out for the camera bit-by-bit, knowing that you were being dragged under by the intoxicating charisma—loving every minute, loving him. The two were so very happy and so very drunk. The camera shifted lower as Mark focused on Mimi. She gave a coy look to the camera before starting on her own list.

_'I'm going back to school.'_

There was something about the way she said it, a huge smile splitting her face, so full of hope and wonderment that it made Mark pause. He threw the switch and the projector slowly ground to a halt. Every once in a while, when things got really bad financially or otherwise, he would wonder what everything would be like if he had followed his parents' dreams for his future, studied business, finished college. It had been the easier option, just going along with a path already chosen for you, so Mark had always taken pride in the fact he had took the bumpier road and decided to fend for himself. But the way Mimi said those words, as if schooling would solve all her problems, get her back on track and magically make everything right again made M-

"Mark," Roger's groggy voice cut through the quiet air. Mark flinched at the sudden noise pulling him away from his musing. He looked over to see his roommate leaning against the doorframe in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. It was amazing to see Roger so relaxed and, what, was that the beginnings of a smile. "Mark," he repeated with a slow grin. "I can actually hear the wheels in your head turning from my bedroom," he teased his best friend with a sleepy smile. "Go to sleep," he said before turning on his heel, leaving the filmmaker alone with his thoughts.

* * *

The mattress was soft and yielded as Mark rolled over onto his back, arms flailed out to the side, spread eagle. A quiet sigh slipped from between his lips as he basked in the unusual feeling of comfort. Normally when he woke up there would be an unbearable kink in his neck or back because of the sheetrock some salesman had dared to call a spring mattress. Not wanting to jinx himself, Mark dismissed the old idea of a painful bed and fully embraced the new mattress. As he slowly woke up he could feel the bits and pieces of a strange dream, the one in which his mattress had been unbearable, slowly slipping through his fingers. Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his glasses off the nightstand beside his bed. The fact he had a nightstand where he had never had one before did not seem to faze him as he stumbled into the kitchen.

"Mark," a clipped tone rang through the room, however Mark distinctly heard the undercurrent of friendly teasing lacing his name. It reminded him of when Roger was in a funk and would become playful yet harsh. He could never predict which way his friend would spin when he was being moody. "I see that you have decided to join the living," Benny. "I made coffee." Wait, that wasn't right, his sleep-addled mind must have been misfiring neurons or something, wires crisscrossed and all that. Shit, Benny was probably here to collect the rent and he and Roger were both flat-out broke. Blinking a few times in rapid succession, he shook his head, wondering where that idea had come from, paying Benny the rent? And who was Roger?

Suddenly it clicked.

"I had the craziest dream," he began worrying his lip trying to remember the details, as they suddenly became intangible feelings. "I was, like, living in some shitty loft over in Alphabet city and you were, like, the landlord or something," he explained, confusion written all over his face. He rubbed the sleeps from his eyes and took the fresh mug of coffee Benny had poured. After a few sips he was feeling a lot better, more settled. It must have been a pretty intense dream.

"Well, you know Allison, the girl you met at the party last night," he gave Mark a sly grin. Ah, yes, Benny ever looking for love in all the wrong places, especially when love was tied around the waist with overstuffed moneybags. "Her father is in the real estate game so it is not all that farfetched an idea, in the not so distant future?" Mark merely rolled his eyes, remembering the ridiculously posh party he and Benny had attended the night before, as well as the twig of a girl Benny was speaking about.

Yes, that must have been it; he had gotten completely trashed at the party. That would explain the crazy dreams. He always had the most vivid and intricate dreams when he was shitfaced. Though he had perfectly reasonable reasons for consuming half of New York's vodka supply in one night. Mark had cracked under the new ultimatum presented by the president of the advertising agency and the new knowledge that yet another woman had cheated on him.

"Oh, like you could nail that frivolous debutante," Mark replied with a grin, glancing over Benny's shoulder at the clock. "Shit, I have be at work in ten minutes, and I have a fucking new client," Mark swore as he rushed back inside his bedroom. Rusting through a few wrinkled suits, sniffing the least crumpled button down and shrugging it on before winding a blue tie around his neck.

"What?" Benny asked, intrigued. "Who is it?" he inquired, watching his friend frantically pulling up the dress slacks. Mark almost tipped over the edge of the bed but managed to tug on his socks and shoes in the same movement.

"Some musical group, indie or pop-rock, something like that," Mark answered, quickly rattling off the information.

"Those are two very different categories," Benny replies with a smug grin as if he knew all about the music scene.

"Not anymore, anyways the firm wants to expand beyond hotels and clothing designers," Mark replied distractedly as he snaked a belt through the loops of the waistband and tugged it tight. "And, if I do well with this new client then I'll make partner," he threw on the suit coat and dashed out of the apartment, grabbing his wallet and unopened briefcase.

* * *

Despite being a half-hour late Mark nailed the presentation to the band's manager, some hotshot from L.A. who was wasting his talent on sugary pop-rock bands. It was simple to market, boring and bland as white bread but at least it was more artistic than hotels and clothing. And, while he would refuse to admit it to himself at face level, the young man had been rather attractive to look at while giving the presentation, all light hair and intense green eyes. Thankfully it was just the manager. Mark had an overpowering hatred for all musicians because of his impossibly vulnerable weak spot for them. If he could not control something he instinctually despised it.

Beyond his control was out of the question.

Which is why he had ended up in the AgencySacks building and not some mundane cubical his parents would have been content with. Mark knew intrinsically that he had been molded for more than that. He would have put a needle to his arm or a bullet in his brain if he had been stuck forever between three and a half faux walls where he could stick up a fluffy kitty calendar with big red X's counting down to his vacation to nowhere. While he had returned to college, after spending the summer trying to find himself between freshmen and sophomore year, he made the change to study advertising. In that particular field of study he would still be able to incorporate his old hopes and aspirations of artistry. It was a beautiful business. Every time his agency was shooting a new commercial for a product he was always on call to help the director, storyboarding all the shots and in charge of the casting calls.

However, like everything important in one's life, it was a double-edged sword. In exchange for being one of the youngest members on staff up for a partnership position his personal life was practically nonexistent. The party he had gone to the night before was the first he had attended in the past three years, and that was after an hour of Benny bullying him into it. And the girlfriend, the one who cheated on him, had been his first in a grand total of five long years. Well, that is not counting the pathetically desperate nights when he would stumble into bars, grab the first girl he found with a sweet smile and drag her into the bathroom.

Not to mention the way the corporate world had begun to corrupt him, piece by piece, taking chunks of his soul away every extra hour he stayed late working on some agreement. Stripping away his every fleeting thought of compassion and devotion to another human. When he first found himself in New York he was naïve and headstrong, diving into the Bohemian life. But college and his parents had called him back down to earth, clamping down on his silly dreams of filmmaking by threatening to cut him off if he did not finish college. By then his almost every fresh idea has been sucked out of his mind. His wit had developed into a razor sharp weapon, fine-tuned to only to be used to cut others down to a more appropriate size.

Cynical did not even begin to describe the acid tongue of Mark Cohen.

But at this moment Mark was as tame as a kitten sated with a warm bowl of milk. Distractedly thinking about the boy with the intense green eyes, Mark's fingers slipped over a ballpoint pen, spinning it around. Tap the top, sliding fingers down; flip over to the cap, sliding fingers down again, and again. The steady rhythm of his pen fiddling was suddenly interrupted by the annoying trill of his phone.

"Mark Cohen, AgencySacks," Mark answered his phone, a little more flustered and anxious than normal. Usually he had a perfect monotone voice, perfectly neutral for his various clients. A light flush was running up the back of his neck, it had been a while since he thought of pretty boys.

"Hey, Mark," a low, jovial voice boomed over the phone and into Mark's ear. It was a pleasant sound that sent Mark reeling back into yesteryear, a veritable lifetime ago. He had heard that voice the night before, calling out to a sweet boy dolled up in a beautiful sleek wig and skirts.

"Collins," he sighed, sinking slowly into the haze of nostalgia. "It's been forever since I last talked to you," his voice was filled with genuine surprise and mirth. A smile was spreading over his face, the first real smile his lips had been stretched into since he last saw Collins. Every detail about his old friend came rushing back and his mind turned to the obvious question. "How you doing?"

"Fine, it's a good week, so far at least," somehow Collins knew exactly what he was asking. How was he coping with the disease, surviving still, not developed into anything more than HIV? It was an odd feeling, the spike of compassion digging into his chest. Mark actually cared for the well-being of his old friend, the last standing tie to his glory days of innocence, wholly consumed by creativity. Anything had been possible then. "Actually the reason I'm calling is because of a friend of mine," Collins's voice lowered an octave, conspiratorial if nothing else. Mark remembered the old anarchist's creed to be always mischievous, always a wonderful mix to any life.

Collins; the magical ingredient to the martini of life.

Mark's eyes widened.

"I'm not into blind dates, Tom," Mark's tone suddenly got very sour, his mind jumped back to last time Collins asked him to do a friend a favor. Collins had been worried about this buddy of his, a veritable Rock and Roll God. The boy was getting a little more fame and groupies with a whole rainbow of STDs were starting to hang around the band, all wanting a piece of the pretty singer. And Mark, having his weakness for musicians, accepted the invitation to go on a blind date with the wild boy with vivid green eyes ringed in dark eyeliner. Or at least that was how Collins described him. Mark had yet to this day to meet the nameless, faceless musician. "You remember that rocker you tried to set me up with a million years ago," his knuckles turned white as he gripped the red ink pen. The plastic was beginning to crack with the pressure. "You know, the one who stood me up because of some girl he disappeared with for the next two months," the pen snapped, ink pouring out over his fingers and onto the pristine paper cover his desk. "Fuck," he cursed jumping out of his chair, moping up the ink up with a tissue from the box he kept in his drawer. "Last time I tried to swing that way," he mumbled into the phone bitterly, looking down at his stained skin.

"God no," Collins chuckled at the irony. "Actually, he's," he began, the truth on the tip of his tongue. Pausing for a moment Collins reconsidered. It was probably not in Roger's best interest if the man Roger was trying to get a job from was the same boy he had stood up. "Actually, what I wanted to talk to you about was my friend needs a job," Collins finally said quietly. "Nothing special, just like a secretary or mailroom, something simple," his voice trailed off as he waited for Mark's response. A few extended minutes ticked by as Mark turned the idea over in his mind. He could use a temp assistant to organize his file cabinets; they were really starting to get messy. But he could get his secretary to do that and just take his calls directly. Not much to it.

"He's positive," Mark stopped. "He only found out a few months ago when his girlfriend off-ed herself."

"How'd he…?"

"Needles, Mark," Mark felt his skin crawl. "But he's clean now, still a little shaky on his feet but that's why I think he should get a real job to occupy his time, rather than sitting at home wasting his time and procrastinating."

"Collins we're not running some bleeding-heart campaign over here," Mark snapped vindictively. He wanted nothing more than to lash out at any give opportunity. An old wound, rubbed raw by the reminder, the band and its very attractive, and very male manager, was putting him in a foul disposition.

And, to top it all off, even Mark could see through it.

It was just like Collins. He could just see the wheels spinning in the man's mind, needing to bring out the humanity in Mark's life. Drag him into the tangled mess of some poor dying junkie life. He didn't need it right now. What he needed was a drink and someone to fuck into a mattress.

Oh, wait even better, the junkie was probably some young boy, once beautiful and full of life, with a smile to warm your soul and melt your heart. But somehow, beyond all reason, he had tragically been led astray by some woman in a short skirt or a boy in tight leather slacks. Whichever way it happened, he had been corrupted before he fully developed into a man.

Fuck.

That.

Care about one, give the problem a face, a name, a fucking salary and you began to die inside thinking about all the others alongside them.

Fall in love with misery and you become its landlocked lover.

"I can't hire a fucking junkie!"

_'I can't begin to care again, not now!'_

"Mark this kids your age," good shot Collins, hit home, just left of the shrunken heart. "He's fucked himself over royal," we all make mistake; if he is supposed to pick himself up he can do it alone. No need for Mark to get involved, dirty his hands in someone else's problems. "Don't tell me your corporate world has completely extinguished that little light of Bohemia I saw in your eyes so many summers ago," low. Very low, Tom. "Please," that was the last straw.

"Alright, he can start tomorrow," Mark breathed into the phone. "Tell him to meet me in the main lobby of the AgencySacks' building on 7th."

"Thanks, Mark," Mark could hear the small smile in Collins's voice, never smug, sincerely thankful.

"Wait, Collins, what's this guy's name?"  
"Roger," something in the back of Mark's mind began to stir.

"Just Roger?" He asked glibly.

"Roger Davis," it sounded oddly familiar.

* * *

**AN:** There is a second part, but tell me if you want it...it's just a silly idea...:D


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: A Little Business

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe.

**Notes**: Originally attempt for Speedrent (Challenge: _a character has the chance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result_?)…little poetic lisence, nothing dramatic, just info you can't 100 get from the play. Angry-fluffy-cheesey!

**Disclaimer**: Don't own, not my characters.

* * *

**A Little Business**

It was a little past eight thirty in the morning when Mark arrived at the AgencySacks' building. Clutching a cup of coffee he bought at a local café near the subway stop, he began to slowly scan the expansive atrium for all the possible young men that might fit the bill of one Roger Davis. Taking a long sip of the warm liquid his eyes flitted from one man to the next, examining their mannerisms and clothing.

There was one possibility currently chatting flirtatiously with the woman at the front desk in the lobby, looking cool and casual in a leather jacket and a wide grin. Next, out of the corner of his eye he saw another young man sitting alone in one of the many posh couches set up in the foyer area, sipping coffee out of a white paper cup. A little green logo showed from between his fingers, _Starbucks_. That would be a no. One man was standing by the elevators, already pasted through security, looking bored out of his mind. Several other young men about Mark's age rushed past him, all dressed in expensive suits. Finally his eyes settled on one young man standing awkwardly a few feet away from the security checkpoint line.

His bleached hair had begun to grow out a while ago, mussed but there was an obvious attempt at trying to tame the ramped bed head. A few fingers of one hand tugged anxiously at the knot of a dark blue tie with little sunbursts, while the others scratched absentmindedly at an itch agitated by the button-down on his forearm. Several studs and earrings, five in total, where spaced out along the curvature of his right ear. Threaded through the cheap dress slacks that the man must have picked up from the Salvation Army was a silver chain connecting to something in his back pocket, a wallet probably. Just peaking out of the hem of his shirtsleeve was the edge of a leather cuff wound tight about his thin wrist, no doubt fastened in place with an oversized metal buckle. During the couple minutes Mark stood observing him he had begun to both chew his nails, worry his lower lip and give almost everyone who walked by him a disgusted glare. He folded his arms over his chest with a deep sigh, curling in on himself as if to become smaller and hopefully disappear completely.

He looked beyond uncomfortable.

_'Bingo_.'

Mark crossed the lobby with an entirely put upon expression, tossing his empty cup in a wastebasket, to where the man was standing. Perfect, a petulant junkie and he was going to have to play babysitter while paying the young man to do busy work. As he walked by he grabbed the man's arm and continued walking without missing a beat. Roger was startled enough by the direct contact to drop the brooding mask and genuinely look taken aback. It had been a while since anyone had touched him.

"Uhh, are you Mark Cohen?" He asked confused as Mark continued walking towards the short line for security. Mark allowed the beginnings of a small self-satisfied grin to tug at the corners of his lips. Of course he was right, he had a natural knack for reading people, especially strangers who fell so beautifully into their own stereotypes. It came in handy when he was pitching advertising ideas to new clients.

"Yup," he replied with a clipped tone, not sparing the man a glance.

"How'd you know I...?"

"You stick out like a sore thumb, Roger," Mark said, finally turning to get a look at this Roger.

Probably been a bad idea. While his glasses helped to magnify images that were far away, nothing really compared to seeing someone up close and personal. Roger's face was thin, cheekbones standing out and with a sharp, clean jaw line; he was handsome, very handsome. Mark felt his blunt fingernails curling in on the soft flesh of his palm as he let that thought roll through his mind. There was something about the dull green of his tired eyes that seemed to spark with life as he waited for Mark to continue, giving the illusion that another, brighter color lay just beneath the thin film. There was a pleasant scent of aftershave that gave Mark the definite impression that, while Roger was a little more than reluctant, he was at least attempting to be presentable. Taking a deep breath he steadied his voice before continuing.

"For starters," he began, finally removing his hand from Roger's bicep. "You look extremely uncomfortable in that ridiculous tie, and then there's the wallet chain," Mark slipped his fingers around the cold chain and gave it a slight tug, bringing Roger's attention to the unnecessary accessory that was probably a staple for him. "Which you'll have to get rid of before we go through security, and, then there's my personal favorite, the multiple piercing," he inclined his head to Roger's ear. The young man actually felt a faint heat rise to his cheeks as he ran his fingers over the silver studs and rings. "Are there any other I should be aware of?"

Another surefire bad idea.

Roger opened his mouth and Mark caught a glimpse of florescent light bouncing off a silver stud pierced through the young man's tongue. A pleasant shockwave of pure electrical impulses went crashing through Mark's body, a thousand dirty images whipping through his mind on fast forward. With a wicked grin he made note of the telltale way Mark shifted uncomfortably, swallowing a few times before shoving his hands deep inside the pockets of his pants. Everything fell into place and suddenly there was nothing more seductive to Mark than that twisted smile curving the boy's thin lips. And then Roger added with a playful leer, "and the other one you don't get to see unless we get a whole lot friendlier and a whole lot more naked."

"That's alright," Mark said, his voice squeaking over the first syllable before sliding back into its normal register. Just as Mark opened his mouth to continue he saw a familiar glint in Roger's eye. Roger was suddenly in control of the situation. He had established himself as desirable and was going to play it up for all that it was worth to twist Mark in whatever way suited him. And Mark had played right into his open hands, giving away his slight attraction, a fucking foolish one at that, and now Roger had taken the wheel and was suddenly driving the car on a crash course collision with disaster. He quickly needed to reassert himself. "Okay, I got you a job filing papers and simple shit like that, not too complex," his tone was solid and commanding, reminding Roger who was in charge. The faint smugness that had been lingering inside the boy's eyes disintegrated. "It's not much, but you gotta start somewhere, right?" It was just a gentle condescending needle in Roger's direction, prodding him along.

Roger shut down.

There was an awkward pause in the conversation as Mark shuffled through the metal detector, managing to come out on the other side unscathed. Roger was not as lucky. From the opposite side of the checkpoint Mark watched as Roger removed the chain, the cuff form his wrist and the thick soled boots that had been conveniently concealed by the long dress slacks.

"Collins told you didn't he?" Roger asked in a quiet tone as soon as he had been cleared. He and Mark were standing amongst a group of people patiently waiting for the next up elevator.

"Told me what?" Mark asked in a blithe tone, pretending not to have the faintest idea what Roger was talking about. Acknowledging the real reason Roger was under Mark's watchful care would just needlessly complicate things. Create a big old mess that Mark really did not want to deal with on top of the stress of his job and the lack of any outlet to vent his sexual frustration.

The automated chime sounded and the heard of people filed calmly onto the elevator, without Mark and Roger.

"About me," Roger said in a strained voice, blunt fingernails dug into Mark's shoulders as Roger pushed him away from the faceless group of people. Wincing slightly at the pressure, Mark looked at the hardest glare in the deep eyes. The once murky pool of green sloshed about, threaded through with bursts of vivid color—something was sparking an emotion inside him. The two ended up standing alone along the back wall of the elevator corridor, speaking in hushed tones.

"Yeah," Mark said with an air of indifference, tearing his eyes away from the pair that was fixed on his face. The warm hands fell away from his shoulders to hang limp against Roger's hips.

"I don't want you to feel obligated or anything," Roger mumbled, and Mark could see the young man searching for any way out of this situation. He did not want to be here but Collins did. And Mark could remember, even way back to his college days, that Collins always knew best—even if you disagreed with him at the time. He'd learned that the long painful way. Plus, the rather wide stubborn streak that was running through Roger was enough to tell Mark that Collins had probably spent the better half of last night convincing his friend that this was 'the right thing to do.' He could not just toss all that hard work out the window because the guy was a little stubborn. Mark respected a good work ethic and it was to be rewarded accordingly—even if Roger was probably going to be beyond difficult to deal with.

"I don't," he said in a steady voice, rooting Roger to his spot.

"Look," Roger began, gesturing anxiously. Twining his long fingers together, fumbling with a few of his rings he sighed and looked at Mark with an earnest expression carved deep into the planes of his face. Switching tactics, clever. The frankness of his silent plea almost crumbled Mark's resolve. "Fuck this," Roger mumbled, throwing his hands up and turning to leave. "I told Collins I'll start working again when I find the right muse, until then I ca-"

"You're an artist?" Mark asked, intrigued.

"Yeah."

"Look, I'm not some stuffed shirt, I know who you are and what you think you stand for, I'm not some yuppie here to corrupt your bohemian purity," he wanted to see those eyes light up again. "It's just to get you back on your feet," his tone softened, knowing exactly how to play the young man with a quick burning temper. "Please take the job, Roger, get a little money to help with your art," always a good line, one that he'd probably be needing to use more often if the agency did expand into a more art oriented world of marketing. "If not for yourself, than for Collins," ah, perfect, The Collins card, beautiful, Mark.

Guaranteed hook, line and sinker every time.

"All right," he conceded. "Lead the way, Mark," Roger said in a mocking tone, motion towards the open doors of the next elevator.

"Mr. Cohen," Mark corrected him, his eyes glazing over with a hard edge as they stepped onto the crowded elevator.

"Mr. Cohen," Roger repeated sardonically.

* * *

The first few days that Roger worked at AgencySacks were a little strenuous. Actually that is a bit of an understatement. A dangerous mix of personalities clashing in all the worst ways possible. After the first day, when Roger came back to the loft ranting about the pathetic boy Collins told him it was probably the mix of his moodiness and Mark's bitter cynicism. It seemed that Roger's simple presence vexed Mark, enticing and threatening at the same time. Mark could lose control, could fall into those eyes on the rare occasion when he hit the right nerve and they lit up like firecrackers. And Roger, the poor boy did not even want to fathom the possibility of consorting with some corporate, all-American boy scout who clung to his 9to5 like some pathetic lifeline. Or maybe it was because he could see parts of himself reflected so perfectly in the hard blue eyes. Whatever it was, the two were constantly at odds.

Of course the entire situation was agitated by the fact that Roger had to work in Mark's office majority of the time, sorting through his file cabinets and tossing papers all over the place. If one thing was out of order in the meticulously organized office at the end of the day Mark would lecture Roger for a good hour the next morning about the necessity for a clean, presentable work space. Roger would smile through his teeth, nodding and biting back insults, and would leave a dull pencil out on the desk just to spite Mark. Sometimes, if he had a particularly good cup of coffee he would just laugh at Roger's gumption and give the boy a few extra brownie points for having some balls. There was something intriguing about the verbal sparring between the two, almost flirtatious.

Eventually, this behavior would become the norm, their relationship fluctuating between blind hatred and the rare moments when they would forget how they were supposed to act and actually laugh with one another. For one thing, it had been eerily silent for the first week. But after a while, when they had come to their silent agreement, Roger would begin to hum quietly while he filed through the thousands of folders, sorting them alphabetically and chronologically. It was like having his own personal jukebox installed in his office. And sometimes, when Mark was a little intoxicated from the night before, giving in for the moment to his admiration of the complex nature of Roger, he would begin to sing the words to whatever song Roger was humming. Roger would join in on the chorus and before they realized it Mark's secretary was on the intercom scolding them. That's when Mark would bit his lips hard to keep from laughing. He would turn to see a beautiful smile, the one he had warned himself about (some drivel about warming your soul and melt your heart) splitting Roger's face.

A few times the bohemian was shocked that Mark even knew what song he was humming, especially when they were songs off the old tapes he had once sold with the Well Hungarians. Collins had probably given Mark some of the extra copies back when Mark was in college, but still he had actually listened to them—enough times to know the words. That was when he would pause and stare at the young man and feel himself beginning to slip a little bit more than the day before.

The world always held a few extra surprises.

* * *

After almost a month of working with Roger, Mark found himself calling Collins regularly over the professor's lunch break. Most of the time they talked about nothing, small talk, sometimes lingering on the topic of philosophy and Collins need for a boy. However, a few times Mark would mention Roger and he could almost image Collins all-knowing smirk as soon as the man's name rolled off Mark's tongue.

"I don't think he really likes me," he mumbled into the phone halfway through a conversation about one of Collins' students. Even as he said it, trying as hard as he could to make his voice sound painfully blasé, he knew Collins would pick up on the underlying meaning.

"You're the epitome of corporate America, marketing, commercialism, publicity, everything a starving artist lacks but needs more of, of course he's not going to 'really like you,'" Collins replied flippantly as if it were the most obvious thing. There was a pause as Collins words sunk into Mark's brain. "What did you expect?"

"I don't know, a little civility," he began fiddling with a pen, wondering in the back of his mind where Roger was with his files.

"He's moody," Collins supplied.

"Really, I hadn't noticed," Mark bit back.

"Do you _want_ him to like you?" Collins asked, though in his tone Mark could tell he already knew the answer.

"I-I," Mark stumbled over himself. Frustrated he chucked his pen at the door just before it opened and Roger walked in. He gave Mark a confused look, cocking an eyebrow and mouthing the word 'freak,' before picking up the pen and tossing it on the other man's desk. He missed Mark flicking him off as he turned to place the folders in one of the empty cabinets. "I've got a call on the other line, later," Mark said in one breath.

* * *

The long hallway was pitch black as Roger made the trek back to Mark's office from archives. Of course Mark's light was still on despite the fact that it was practically eleven o'clock at night and no one else was in the building. The only reason he was still there was because he had gotten locked in a back stairwell and had been forced to wait an hour and a half for the custodian to stumble upon him. As he continued down the dark corridor he found himself drawn to the illuminated office, not surprised one bit to find Mark hunched over his neat desk scribbling notes down on a legal pad, oblivious to Roger's scrutinizing stare.

Collins had told Roger a lot about Mark, a lot that Roger was having a hard time believing while he watched the workaholic shackled to his desk. How could someone like him, or at least who had the potential to be like him, end up in some disgusting bourgeois company that was the epitome of better living through money—sweet, sweet materialism how you control our lives. Roger could not even begin to wrap his mind around it. Sure he was working there as well, but only temporarily, and as a favor to an old friend. Not by choice, well maybe something about Mark and intrigued him and that was why he caved but that little nugget of information was something Roger won't talk about for now. But, no matter what it was wrong to see Mark slaving away at something that was probably going to drain some teenager's wallet when he could be out having an actual life that, hey, might be worthwhile.

Novel concept.

"You're staying late," there was a tone of disgust in Roger's voice as he leaned against the doorframe. "Again?" He added with a scoff. "No wonder you don't have a life," he mumbled to himself as he turned to leave. There was no point in wasting his time with Mark.

"Excuse me?" Mark called to Roger, tossing the notepad he had been using on to the desk. Pausing for a moment, Mark stared at the mess he had created. He quickly shuffled the pieces of folded paper to lie flat before placing his pen smoothly over the top sheet. Roger rolled his eyes as he watched the odd display of Mark's pathetic perfectionist neurosis at it's best.

"You have no life, Mr. Cohen," he repeated himself as he took a step inside the office, tacking on the formal title in the form of a condescending prod.

"Says the junkie," Mark countered with a disturbingly blithe smirk twisting his lips, standing from his chair to circle around his desk.

"Fuck you, I'm clean," the reply was instantaneous; Mark had hit a raw nerve.

"So you say, but the track marks tell a different story," soft fingertips ran along Roger's forearm, tugging up the thin fabric of Roger's button-down, before being smacked away.

"They're old scars you fuck," Roger's arms instantly fold in on themselves to hid the scars that where already hidden under his shirt.

"Keep telling yourself that," flashing him a wide, sardonic grin. There was a pause as Roger held Mark's acidic gaze, searching for something beneath the thick layer of ice, any remote signs of compassion. Something flickers as in the depths before being quickly stomped out.

"You're impossible," Roger sighed, almost ready to give in and just walk away.

"And you, Rog, are a washed-up nothing," as soon as he says it he wants to swallow the words back up, erase them from Roger's memory as he sees the flash of vivid hurt darken the green eyes. The color hardens and they brighten for a moment into a razor sharp edge as he cocks his head and speaks.

"What about you, Mr. Cohen?" Another step closer until he is practically toe-to-toe with Mark. "Collins told me all about you," he grinned, spotting the perfect opening to finally tear into Mark, splay him out so the boy can be rebuilt into the beautiful something he was _supposed_ to be.

_'The opposite of war isn't peace, it's creation._'

"And what exactly did he say?" Mark played right into Roger's hands, again, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the hard edge of his desk.

"Uninspired, can't finish a thing, wannabe filmmaker," he listed off slowly, letting every syllable cut a deep wound in Mark's soul. Roger noticed the young man visibly flinch before schooling his expression to be unreadable. Even his eyes were dead pools of crystallized blue. "Only spent a summer in New York City to 'find yourself' and were suddenly disenchanted by the reality of the romanticized bohemian life style," he mocked, lips turned down in a pathetic pout. "You got scared and ran back to what was safe and familiar," he smiled wryly, a dry laugh escaping his lips. "You're pathetic." The words lingered in the air as Mark stares at him unblinkingly, blank expression but Roger could see the flicker of pain rising to the surface. At least it's something, some emotion. He latched onto the hope bubbling up inside him. "Collins did say you would have," he paused, turning away from Mark as he amends his words. "You could have been something else, you had the right make about you to be a real filmmaker," Roger looked up at Mark, desperately searching his face for something more. "You just," he gave him a melancholy half smile, this part he knows all to well. "He said you just never found your muse."

The blurred mixture of pain and lost hope finally rose to the surface and Roger took a step back towards the doorway. Mark did not say a word.

"I," Roger started again; his words failed him for a moment. "I was going through the archives, putting some of the files in for storage, and I found a few reels of film. They were some of the commercials you directed," he saw the look of pure hope rise up in Mark's face for the first time since he's met the man.

It's captivating.

In that single moment he looked ten years younger, a pale reflection of what he must have been back when he stayed with Collins. Roger suddenly realized that he held the young man's whole world in his next few words. He had the control to either create or destroy Mark's entire future in one breath.

"I think I agree with Collins," he whispered before slipping out the door.

"Roger," Mark called and before he realized what he was doing. "Roger, wait," he yelled, nearly colliding into Roger as the young man turns around. His entire body was humming with excitement as he looked up into the boy's intense green eyes—managing to shine even in the darkness of the hall. "Thank you," he murmured, and it's so quiet that Roger wasn't sure he had actually heard it or not.

"Mr. Cohen?" Roger asks in a bland voice before a solid, warm weight melts against his chest.

"Mark," he corrects, as he pressed his mouth tentatively against Roger's in a light touch of lip to lip.

"Mark," Roger murmurs with a smile against Mark's lips, wrapping his arms around the thin waist and pressing their hips together.

There is something heartbreakingly beautiful about the hesitant way Mark pressed his lips against Roger's, asking permission first. Roger found it endearing and nipped at the young man's lower lip and suddenly Mark came to life. The two boys stumbled back into Mark's office, propelled on by Mark pushing anxiously against Roger, trying to get impossibly closer to the boy's warm body. Somehow Roger found himself flush against the desk, the pen and a stapler digging awkwardly into the small of his back. He was pressed flat against the surface with Mark licking and biting at his lips. Soft fingertips began to tug impatiently at his belt buckle, a thigh pressed between his legs as Mark shifted his hips against Roger's in a sinfully slow buck. With a low moan, Roger pulled himself away from Mark, his fingers gripping the other man's wrists to still the busy hands.

"Mark," he says as the other man whimpers at the lost of much needed contact. Roger soothed him with a gentle kiss before pressing the tip of his nose against Mark's cheek, nudging him gently to look him in the eye. Mark's glasses had slipped halfway down his nose and were dangerously on the edge of falling off. "We can't without, I," he fumbled for the right words, avoiding the most direct and blunt.

"Right," Mark sighed, his forehead thudding against Roger's shoulder as he collapsed against the boy's body.

"And I'm right to assume you're not the kind of guy to keep condoms in his desk drawer," Mark let the light needling slide, rolling the words over in his mind as a breathless laugh escaped his lips.

"Yeah," he said with a self-deprecating grin. "We can't at my place—my roommate's would fucking flip if I brought home a guy."

"You okay with a shitty loft in Alphabet City"

"If it has condoms," Mark replied, pressing another kiss against Roger's lips as he moved from off of Mark's desk.

"And, in the morning you can chat with Collins," Roger added as Mark left, arms wound tight around Roger, leaving his desk a mess.

* * *

Roger was leaning against the wall leading down the short hallway to the bedrooms, holding a steaming cup of coffee and looking thoroughly well fucked. From where Collins sat on the dilapidated sofa, held mostly together by the collective willpower of himself and Roger, along with a few rolls of duct tape, comfortably snug despite the lack of heat he could see the sweetly sated look on the younger man's face.

"You fucked him?" He asked him flat out with an approving smile.

"Actually no," Roger said slowly with a wicked grin, allowing the words to roll around in his mouth before dripping off his tongue. "He fucked me, and he was quite good at it for being so tragically out of practice," he mused as if it were something quite intellectually astounding. "Especially with boys," he added with a broad grin.

"Like you've been getting some, correct me if I'm wrong but isn't this the first time you've gotten laid since your withdrawal," Collins laughed.

"Doesn't matter, Collins, you should know that," Roger waved his hand in Collins direction, brushing off the comment with a flick of his wrist. Taking a sip of his coffee he looked at his roommate over the rim, muttering something that sounded like, "when a boy knows, he knows." There was a short pause as Collins allowed a slow burning smile to pull at his lips before Roger broke the calm. "And fuck, those eyes," Roger nearly purred in a low voice, his own eyes screwed shut as his knees nearly buckled beneath his weight. "When they're not ice daggers, shit," he said, dramatically pretending to slump against the wall for support.

"Be careful, Rog," Collins warned, a smile still on his lips. "I know you think you're probably the most damaged person in the world but he's just as broken," his voice had lost its naturally teasing edge. "You can only bend so far against your own desires before you snap."

"I know," Roger murmured into his coffee mug again.

"Hey," a sleepy murmur came from just behind Roger as Mark stumbled out of the man's room, bleary eyed and hair sticking out in all different directions. He was wearing Roger's button-down shirt, the same disgusting tie still threaded through the collar and a pair of boxers. The black frames of his glasses were askew.

"Mark, you're up," Roger shifted his weight, rolling off the wall to wrap an arm around Mark's shoulders. Coffee mug knocking against Mark's should he allowed himself to be pulled into a morning kiss. It had been several years since Mark had actually had a proper morning kiss to start the day with. Mark nearly melted against Roger, finger's hooking in the elastic waistband of the young man's boxers and moaning wantonly in the back of his throat as he felt little licks against his lips.

"Mmm, morning Roger," he whispered as he pulled away, his forehead pressed against Roger's. Collins let out a little cough and Mark finally tore his eyes away from Roger long enough to notice his old friend seated on the couch. "Hey Collins," he said with a smile, one that Collins had neither seen nor heard in Mark's voice since the young man had been a sophomore in college.

"The prodigal son," Collins replied with a wide grin as he watched Roger pick up the young man, despite Mark's halfhearted protests, and carry him over to the couch to sit beside Collins while he fetched Mark a cup of coffee.

* * *

**AN:** It has a life of its own, I wanted to fit the end of the story in this installment but Mark kept talking so you'll have to wait. Please trust that everything will make sense in the next part. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** A Little Business

**Rating:** R

**Notes:** Originally attempt for Speedrent (Challenge: _**a character has the** chance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result?_)…little poetic lisence, nothing dramatic, just info you can't 100 get from the play. I'm a little nervous now, I hope I don't mess up everything good about this story with this installment. Oh, bit of Angel/Collins thrown in!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not my characters.

* * *

**A Little Business**

Mark didn't even have a chance.

Caught up in a rather pleasant daydream about all the possible ways he could put Roger's tongue ring towards a much more practical use, he didn't hear the door swing open accompanied by the angry stomp of spindly stilettos embedding in the thick carpet lining his office.

"What did you do to him?" the accusatory voice of his secretary was closely followed by the harsh slam of his office door. He could almost hear the wood splintering as it shuttered to a halt, colliding with the doorframe. She stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips, staring her flustered boss down. Mark's secretary was probably the only woman, or human being, who could give Mark a level glare, one that left no room for protest to the impromptu interrogation he was about to be subject to. However, that might simply be a testament to their previous relationship. A short-lived grin played on her lips as she watched him frantically swing his legs off of his desk, knocking over several files in the process. Ignoring the clatter she continued to watch him, sucking on her teeth she moved her head in an agitated way indicating that she was waiting for an answer, and that it better be a damn good one.

"Wha-who?" Mark began babbling. A deep flush had already been rolling up the back of his neck, staining his pale skin with a soft pink glow. Now the odd blush had increased tenfold, burning his cheeks as he began fiddling with the suddenly too tight collar of his dress shirt. For a moment he debated picking up the fallen folders but, taking a second look at his secretary thought better of it. Instead, he bit back an agonizing groan as he shifted self-consciously in his chair, sliding his chair further beneath the desk to hide the slight tenting of his khakis. The hard pressure of the heel of his hand digging into his thigh muscle diverted the downward rush of blood pumping in his veins. Sighing in relief, he glanced back up at his secretary.

"Who?" she repeated, her tone thick with contempt. Her voice had a breathy quality, sounding almost on the verge of laughter, as if she couldn't believe her boss did not know exactly who she was talking about. "Roger," she said curtly, motioning frantically towards the office door where Mark assumed Roger must be.

"What about him?" Mark asked, confusion written all over his face, heart thudding anxiously against his sternum. Suddenly it registered in Mark's mind that he had not seen Roger since leaving the rundown loft to change into fresh clothing at his own apartment several hours ago. An odd panic begun to set in, buzzing anxiously along the length of his spine. For a moment his secretary was taken aback by the rather obvious emotion playing with her bosses usually stoic face. His whole demeanor was throwing her for a loop; apparently Mark Cohen was actually capable of displaying an emotion other than smugness or scorn. "He's alright, isn't he?" Mark asked hesitantly, moving the fraction of an inch to look around his secretary, forgetting for a moment that the door was closed, hoping to catch a glimpse of Roger.

"Actually, no," she replied, her body becoming rigid and her movements jagged and disorienting. Too caught up in her own tirade she missed the expression of sheer alarm flash across Mark's face. By her reasoning, the poor boy had done nothing truly egregious against their boss. Maybe Roger had caught Mark a few times at his own game of snide comments but nothing that would entail Roger resorting to hovering nervously outside Mark's office. Taking a step closer to Mark's desk she lowered her voice, but still managed to maintain the harsh undertone. "He's been hanging around my desk ever since he came in this morning," a silent rage, seething beneath her words and ignited by the flicker of aggression in her wide darkened eyes. "I thought he was just waiting for your meeting to be over so he could go into your office but it's been almost two hours since that band manager left," the sound of metal colliding with the garnished wood of his desk punctuated her final words. She took a deep steadying breath before asking her initial question one more time hoping for an actual answer. "So I repeat, what did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything to him, Maureen," his lips moved slowly, wrapping his mouth carefully around every word while Maureen focused on the impish glint swimming around somewhere in the depths of his eyes, buried beneath the cold edge. It is and odd and unsettling thing, the way his eyes soften just a bit, imploring her not to go any further with the topic. Lacing his fingers together, laying them casually on the desktop he leaned forward waiting for her to back down.

"Oh yeah, sure," she answered back, making a face and rolling her eyes but taking a step back nonetheless, conceding to his request.

"Would you send him in?" Mark asked calmly, pursing his lips. A silent battle of wills took place for a fraction of a second while Maureen debated whether or not she should feed poor Roger to the lions. She heaved a reluctant sigh and turned, too bad, Roger was kind of cute.

"Roger, your presence has been requested," Maureen called, throwing open the door, giving it a little kick with her heel for dramatic show. On the other side Roger sat swiveling around slowly in Maureen's chair chewing at the dull fingernail of his thumb and staring apprehensively at the now open door. He immediately jumped up out of the chair, sending it slamming backwards into the woman's desk before it bounced back to bump him in the back of the knees. Stumbling forward, he gave Maureen a cutting look as she walked out of the office. The two of them began to argue agitatedly, all frantic gestures, a few vulgar, being exchanged between the two. A few choice words flying back and forth, but Mark was too far away to hear anything specific. He watched as Maureen caught Roger's flitting hands and pulled him close, whispering something to Roger with a level of seriousness that was usually reserved only for dealing with him—on a very bad day. Suddenly Roger slapped Maureen's hands away from his wrists and she jumped out of his way.

There was an odd pause as soon as Roger crossed the threshold into Mark's office. Well, at least Roger hadn't called him Mr. Cohen, feigning an expectant look as if he had now clue what their little chitchat was going to be about. The young man's hand was caught gripping the round doorknob as if it where his only lifeline, skin stretched taut over bony knuckles to turn the skin a shocking white color that nearly matched the surprisingly pristine color of his cotton button-down. Standing inside the office Roger tugged the door back and forth with a questioning look, silently asking Mark whether or not he should close it. The only answer he received was an extremely annoyed look from Mark, his face twisted in a pained expression that meant the choice was an obvious one, especially with the vulture Maureen sitting on pins and needles outside the office waiting for the verdict.

Roger quietly shut the door behind him.

Taking his time, any chance to stall the inevitable, Roger crossed the short distance from the doorway to the comfortable chairs set up in front of the desk for clients. For several minutes Mark watched as Roger leaned back in the chair, fiddling with a resilient crease in the fold of his dress pants. He ran his fingertips over the wrinkle repeatedly but somehow never managing to fix the flaw. Roger's every mannerism; every idiosyncrasy that Mark had been picking up on all month seemed inexorably amplified. While it was rather interesting to watch him it was also unbelievably painful.

Mark's mind was itching for someway to capture the man's conduct, so utterly human and beautiful.

"Rog-" Mark began speaking, just as Roger opened his mouth to explain his odd behavior.

"When you left this morning I wasn't sure, I mean," pausing, he began fiddling with a silver band wrapped around his thumb. Spinning the ring, directing all his attention on the object he refused to look at Mark's face as he searched for the correct words. "I don't want to assume anything," he said as he met Mark's gaze, a new air of confidence surrounding his words, almost daring Mark to deny him.

"So you thought hiding from me would be the best way to figure out if there's something going on between us?" Mark asked in the same cutting tone he had used a thousand times before when dealing with Roger. Turning his chair he slipped out from behind his desk. Pale fingers wrapped around the dark frames of his glasses as he tugged them off. "I can't say that would be my exact plan of action, but to each his own," he continued petulantly, walking around to stand before Roger, leaning back against the edge of his desk. Mark gingerly placed the folded glasses behind him before turning to look at Roger with a caustic grin.

"I'm choosing to ignore that," Roger replied casually, folding his arms across his chest and staring at Mark with the beginnings of a knowing smile curbing his words. Crossing one long leg over the other, Roger continued "Going to chalk it up to you being freaked out of your _mind_ that you might actually want to have a relationship with an ex-junkie from the wrong side of Park Avenue," his smile was now almost full force and lighting up the sparks of bright green in his eyes.

Roger could almost hear the various gears and cogs clanking along in Mark's head as the young man turned over the perceptive remark. There were several ways he could react, majority of them were of the particular brand that didn't inevitably leading to more mind-blowing sex with Roger. But there was one, and if Mark was honest with himself it was the one that had instantly come to mind—anyone who could caught him in such an obvious deflection was very much deserving of both his time and lavish affection. But as he thought to himself a nearly uncomfortable silence settled between the two. Roger almost began to second-guess himself; perhaps it wasn't best to fight fire with fire. Maybe he had been wrong about the whole thing, maybe he was just a one-night stand. However, before he had the chance to recant his statement, Mark allowed a few quiet words to swallow up the awkward air circulating between them.

"Well then," he began with a very nonchalant demeanor that actually made Roger sit up and listen carefully. Two ways he could go. "I don't think you'll be too adverse to coming over to the 'right side' for dinner at my apartment tonight," his voice was calm, giving away nothing in its bland tone. But Roger caught the flicker of open hope rising to the surface within Mark, as if he thought there might be a chance of rejection.

"I thought," Roger faltered for a moment, his mind still trying to wrap around the concept of Mark opening up to him. "What about your roommate? Won't he, ya know, freak…?"  
"He's got a 'hot date,'" Mark replied with a leer, cocking an eyebrow and tilting his head.

"Too bad he's the only one," Roger deadpanned.

"Ouch!" Mark gasped with a playful half grin as he leaned forward, his bright blue eyes wide open. Pressing his hand against Roger's chest he could feel the heat radiating off the other boy's body, bleeding through the cool cotton fabric of his button-down. His fingers wandered over to the gaudy tie laced around Roger's neck, slipping the course fabric between his fingers before giving the hideous accessory a gentle tug. It had the desired affect, dragging Roger closer until their lips met in a soft kiss. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

* * *

Dinner was nothing fancy, just Mark attempting to demonstrate his abilities with a pot of boiling water, noodles and overpriced organic red sauce. However, he did have very good and very old, expensive red wine to go with the less than stellar spaghetti he had fixed. He would have to make up some excuse to tell his roommate why he had broken open the bottle of wine Benny's father sent Benny for graduation. Mark had debated it all afternoon but decided to go with a single candle lit in the center of the table. The little lump of wax earned Mark a snide, "who knew the emotionless boy wonder of advertising could be so romantic?" followed by an appreciative kiss. Over dinner they talked about Mark's childhood, how he started working at AgencySacks, and his connection to Collins. After Roger wolfed down a second plate while Mark nibbled on a piece of garlic bread they ended in the living room. Or rather, Mark ended up on the couch while Roger looked around curiously.

"This is a really nice apartment, Mark," Roger murmured, walking slowly around the perimeter of the small living room. A part of him felt almost dirty by simply being in an advertiser's wet dream of an apartment. Nearly everything was brand name, right down to the Pottery Barn coasters stacked neatly on the glass coffee table. Not to mention the fact the entire apartment smelled like some unholy concoction of Lysol and Febreeze, every once in a while punctuated by Mark's cologne and aftershave. Running his fingertips over all of the expensive furnishings that decorated the apartment, taking in every extravagant decoration and knickknack Mark had been collecting over the years. One of the most interesting pieces was a strip of film hung up in a frame. Looking at the copper plaque he discovered that the film was part of a movie called _Nanook of The North, _and it had been directed by someone named Flaherty. He paused to look back at Mark who was seated on the plush sofa with his half empty glass of wine.

"I couldn't afford it on my own, remember I have a roommate," Mark said, not noticing where Roger had stopped to admire the piece of film documentary history tacked up on his wall. It was an odd statement for him to make, something in his voice almost verging on guilt mingling with, what, modesty?

Perish the thought.

"Who is conveniently gone for the night," Roger said with a smile, tearing himself away from the telltale signs of the old Mark, out on display but behind a layer of protective glass. He crossed the living room in a few quick steps, sinking on to the sofa and straddling Mark's hips, knees pushing into the soft leather cushions in a wholly blissful form of comfort Roger wasn't used to. Wrapping his arms around Mark's neck he captured the other man's lips in a slow burning kiss. Long fingers wound themselves through naturally bright blond hair, tugging insistently at the back of his head to deepen the kiss. The warm metallic tang of Roger's tongue stud slide into his mouth as he pressed his hands against the other man's face.

"Mmmhmm," Mark moan as Roger nipped at his lower lips, laving the swollen flesh gently with his tongue before pulling away. "With his debutant," he said distractedly running his thumb over Roger's parted lips. A pink tongue slipped out to lick teasingly at Mark's thumb.

"Charming," Roger sneered as his fingers moved to the infuriatingly small buttons of Mark's shirt, working them open slowly to reveal pale skin flushed with a healthy glow of arousal.

"Don't knock it, Rog," Mark said, his hand falling away from Roger's face as he tilted his head back as wet lips and blunt teeth found his collarbone. His hands settled on the worn fabric of Roger's plaid pants, finding the material insanely soft and very thin after thousands of rinse cycles. The young man had changed out of the disgusting corporate cloths before coming over that evening. It was interesting to see the stares he got from the people inside the foyer of Mark's apartment building, all wondering what in the hell a ragamuffin like him was doing in an upscale residence. "If he gets another date you'll get to sleep in a place that actually has heat and warm running water," a promise of more to come.

"Warm water! Shower sex, Marky," Roger replied in a falsetto, bouncing on Mark's lap in a wholly inappropriate way. The dull green of his eyes gave way to a brilliant color Mark felt himself falling head first into, swallowing him up on all sides. And he wasn't exactly adverse to the loss of total control, it he was yielding to Roger. "Mmmmh, I can't wait to be fucked into a soft mattress with a nice headboard," he mused, eyes sliding shut in a nearly orgasmic expression.

"Such a debauched boy," it was barely above a whisper.

"You love it."

"Well a little kink never _really_ hurt anyone," Mark said, his voice wavering as it nearly broke on the word 'kink' as he felt Roger yanking the tails of his shirt out of his pants as he finished unbuttoning the top. Something light up in Roger as he paused to let the fabric lay against Mark's flushed skin instead of being torn off his body like the previous night.

"Speaking of," and suddenly the solid warmth was gone from Mark's lap. He had to control himself from whining at the loss of contact, maintain at least some level of his skewed dignity.

"Rog—where are you going?" Mark asked halfheartedly as he slowly, and rather painfully, stood up to follow Roger. He found the young man in his bedroom tossing clothing every which way obviously looking for something. A few things were strewn about the floor that Mark knew for a fact were supposed to be kept beneath his bed strictly at all times. Seated on the carpeted floor, Roger was looking through the mass of shoeboxes lining the bottom of Mark's closet. "Umm, what are you doing?" he asked dumbly as Roger huffed in frustration, holding a shoe in one hand and a torn up, rather well loved porn magazine in the other.

"Mark, I'm ashamed of you," he said flatly, looking up at Mark standing in the doorway and shaking his head disapprovingly. For a second Mark just stared at Roger perplexed, almost on the brink of allowing a 'huh?' slip from his lips. "No leather and no handcuffs," Roger sighed again, tossing the shoe back into its box, but not letting go of the porn.

"My last girlfriend took them with her," Mark supplied lamely, sitting down on the foot of his bed.

"I'm sure she did," Roger replied with a disbelieving smile, hitting Mark's shin with the rolled up porn. Turing back to the closet to examine at what he had to work with. "Oh well, I guess we can use a few of your many ties," Roger said standing up and fingering the score of ties dangling from the intricate brass tie rack nailed to the inside of Mark's closet door. With a coy look over the shoulder Roger was surprised to see the disturbed look on Mark's face.

"No, Roger they're silk," he warned, his voice a little lower than normal, cautioning the other man that he was taking his own life into his hands if he even thought about putting any one of his ties at risk. "I'm not getting sweat, lube, come or any other nasty fluid on them," Mark listed off on his fingers, effectively killing all joy in Roger's face, thinking he had found a possible solution.

"Alright," Roger said, looking around the room. Hidden just beneath the hem of the bedspread was a mass of dark blue and white knitted fabric. He must have dislodged it when he was pulling things out from under the bed. Dropping to his knees again, Roger crawled over to where the object lay. As he hooked his fingers in one of the larger holes he held the scarf out where Mark could see. "How about this?" he suggested.

"Oh no, put that back where you found it," Mark said, eyes wide as Roger moved to kneel before him with the scarf.

"What's the matter with it?" Roger asked earnestly, running the scarf through his fingers. The yarn that had been used to make the garment was extremely soft and he could just image how wonderful it felt to be bundled up in during a cold day. "It's cute," he purred, tossing the scarf around Mark's neck, wrapping around him once before leaving the knitted fabric to lie softly against the dark suit coat. Fingering the tassels at the end he admired how the single item threw an entirely new spin on the young man. Something homemade, off brand, actually not even a brand. It looked far more natural wound about Mark's throat than a tie ever did.

"My mother made it," Mark mumbled pulling the scarf from his neck.

"Marky has Mommy issues? Guess it would explain quite a lot."

"Shut it or I'm not lashing you to my nice headboard," he warned, looping the scarf around Roger's wrists.

* * *

"Hey Col—shit did I wake you up?" Mark winced as he realized that maybe other, saner people weren't up at some ungodly hour at night. Gently closing the bedroom door behind him, blocking out the quiet sounds of Roger's gentle snoring, Mark clutched the cordless phone as he flicked on the bathroom light.

"No, no, nope, well yes," Collins said rapid fire as he blinked several times trying to wake himself up. Pushing down the urge to tell the young man off, Collins continued with an understanding, "but you obviously must have a reason for calling at." Pausing, Collins rolled over to squint through the dark. The illuminated numbers of his clock took shape and his mouth fell open. "Shit, boy, it's five in the morning," he whispered in disbelief, a slight undercurrent of laughter lacing his words as he rolled into a sitting position. The body that had been lying contentedly beside him felt the bed shift and Mark heard the rustling through the phone.

"Guapo, que pasa?" a faint voice spoke in sleepy Spanish from somewhere in the background.

"Shhh, go back to sleep Angel," Collins voice dropped several octaves lower as he whispered to whoever had spoken. There was a warmth in his tone that, along with the naturally calming quality, would likely lull anyone to sleep.

"Do you have someone over there?"

"As a matter a fact I do, Mark," Collins said and Mark could hear the bright smile on the man's lips as he spoke. "Actually I just met her and I'm trying to make a good impression," he added, hoping Mark would catch the implied, "_and I want to get back to post coitus_ _bliss so make it quick_."

"Sor—her?"

"Trans, Mark," Collins explained shifting around to look at Angle curled up, fingers laced together beneath her head. "Think about it."

"Oh," Mark said, his mind still running a little slow sleep deprived after spending the evening with a bound Roger to play with. "Oh! I'm so sorry, it's just, I, I."

"And the stuttering begins," his voice still managed to have a good-natured ring that Mark was thankful for, otherwise he wouldn't have called to confide in the other man. "I'll be right back," he heard Collins whispered to Angel.

"M'kay," she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

"Okay tell Collins what's gotten your panties all a-twist," he said after a few minutes of silence while Collins stumbled through the dark into the loft's kitchenette.

"It's Roger," Mark started, shredding a poor piece of toilet paper as he racked his brain for a concrete way to express the odd bubbling over sensation that had begun to consume him. "He, and I, we," he tried, grasping onto any flyby word that popped into his head.

"Sentences, Mark, please."

"When I'm with him I feel different, funny," he finally got out. "It's not like a stupid ha-ha funny, but rather like a good type of funny, like disgusting warm fuzzies and shit like that," he continued in the same breath.

"Mark," Collins said, using the same calming voice to instruct the young man to take a deep breath.

"Sorry. I feel like I'm back in fucking college and there are a million ideas racing through my head but I can't seem to write them all down fast enough," the toilet paper was now being tore the opposite direction, becoming tiny squares of flimsy paper. "I feel capable, I feel alive," his voice was steadily becoming more and more solid, as if his own conviction was growing right along side it. "It's fucking freaking me out, Col," and then it broke.

"Congrats, you're in love, you're inspired, you've blossomed—only a few years late. Do I have permission to I back to my waiting Angel now?"

* * *

"Oh please," Mark whined as soon as he saw Roger turning up the collar of his button-down to slip his old tie into place. The gaudy one with sunburst against a dark blue background that had turned out to be some attempt at paisley. A shiver ran up Mark's spine, so unbelievably tacky and childish. "Please, Rog, no," he tried to reason with him, covering Roger's hands with his own. The other man stopped, looking at Mark with a confused expression. Shoulders tense he tried to search Mark's eyes to find out what exactly he had done wrong now. "Not that damn tie again."

"Mark," his shoulders slumped and a breath he had been holding poured from his lips in a heavy sigh.

"Here," Mark said distractedly as he opened his closet door and started rooting around in his tie rack for one that he believed would suit Roger. "You can wear one of mine," he extracted a deep green silk tie from the mass of silk. Despite the bubble of disgust welling up inside Roger he had to admire the way Mark was so organized. A skill he hoped Mark could maybe help him with. "In fact," Mark began with a smile, smoothing out the fine silk with the palm of his hand before wrapping it skillfully around Roger's throat in a single fluid motion. "Keep it," he grinned before looking up at Roger's face to be greeted with a grimace.

"The corporate noose," Roger mumbled dramatically as Mark tightened the knot, pushing it further up to fit snuggly against the young man's buttoned collar.

"Awww, but it brings out the color in your eyes ever so beautifully," he teased using the same falsetto Roger had been rather fond of the night before. However, the color match was the only reason Mark had decided on the green for Roger. Pressing a kiss against Roger's lips he felt the other man's hands settle on his hipbones. The expensive fabric of his ironed slacks was becoming wrinkled as his fingers twisted in the material. Debating whether or not he could deal with a messy appearance in exchange for a quick blowjob, Mark decided they would probably get carried away and miss the subway. "C'mon," he grabbed Roger's hand, twining their fingers together in a loose hold. Leading him out of the room and into the kitchenette area to grab some coffee before they he heard the sound of cups clattering onto faux marble countertops.

Benny, shit.

Mark dropped Roger's hand.

"Hey Mark," Benny called as he heard his roommate moving about the apartment. "Is this coffee new or ol—" he glanced up as he heard Mark's shoes hitting against the tile of the kitchenette in time to see the two men. "Oh, I didn't know you had a business associate over," Benny said, his entire demeanor changing—definitely not the type of person who would yell across an apartment to his roommate. He extended his hand for Roger to reluctantly shake, a huge open smile.

"Benny, this is Roger, he's my assistant at the moment," Mark said smoothly, motioning to Roger before turning to the countertop to grab two disposable paper cups. "Roger, this is my roommate Benny," he said over his shoulder, nodding needlessly towards Benny as he filled the cups and added cream and sugar to his own while leaving Roger's black.

"Nice tie," Benny said offhandedly, motioning towards the tie Mark had chosen for him while Mark secured the lids on the coffee cups. Mark nearly spilled the cup he was working on has he heard Roger's replied, just imagining the clenched jaw and a through-his-teeth smile that he was most likely flashing Benny.

"Thanks," Roger replied shortly, refusing to look over at a very self-satisfied Mark.  
"Actually, Benny, we were just leaving," Mark said, handing Roger his coffee and heading towards the front door without another word to his roommate.

"Bye, hope to see you again, Roger," Benny said sincerely.

"Ditto," Roger shot back with a beautiful fake smile that practically dripped with venom as he slammed the door behind him. Walking down the short hall to the elevator, Mark took a hesitant sip from the steaming cup as he thumbed the button. A second after hitting the button the chime went off and the thick metal doors slid open to reveal an empty compartment.

"Don't say anything," Roger said, tight lipped and staring straight ahead as the couple stepped onto the elevator.

"Wasn't going to," Mark replied with a haughty grin, twisted by a playful tinge as he glanced at Roger's reflection in the elevator doors.

* * *

**AN: **It's a beast, I swear! Hope I can wrap it up in the next part. Oh and _Nanook of The North_ is a real film that is credited as being the beginning of documentary filmmaking. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** A Little Business

**Summary:** Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe.

**Notes:** Originally attempt for Speedrent (Challenge: _a character has the chance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result?_)**…**little poetic lisence, nothing dramatic, just info you can't 100 get from the play. A lot of making out, strange? Oh, and Alison Grey ships Mark/Roger ya'll!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not my characters.

* * *

**A Little Business**

The thick collar of Alison's knee length mink coat was beginning to make her sweat in a most unladylike fashion. Hot, sticky strands of dark fur where clinging to her flushed skin as she tugged anxiously at the pelt. However, it was not entirely unwelcome. It was something new and exhilarating that she had never really experienced before, being caught up in someone else so entirely that she had nearly forgotten herself. Traipsing jauntily through the long apartment building corridor, she allowed the coat to drop away, hanging elegantly around her middle and caught skillfully on her bent elbows. The sheen of sweat was beginning to cool against her warm skin. Glancing up at her date, Alison fluttered her Maybelline eyelashes a few times to get his attention as soon as he stopped talking about the good neighborhood. With a dramatically content sigh she leaned against him, pulling his arm closer to her body and twining their hands together.

"Oh Benny-wenny," the short hairs on the back of Benny's neck stood on end. He took a deep breath, swallowing back the rush of revulsion upon hearing the pet name as soon as he looked down into her huge eyes. Vapid pools of murky blue-green staring up at him with unadulterated adoration, flawlessly threaded through with the best of intentions. "I cannot wait to see your darling little apartment," she cooed, giving Benny's hand a little squeeze as he smiled back down at her with a haughty grin that her father would definitely disapprove of if he had seen the telltale glint in the man's eyes. There was something in her voice that told Benny she did not have the faintest idea she was condescending to him with her remark. Thousands of people in New York City would kill to have his and Mark's apartment, not to mention all of the unique and needlessly extravagant paraphernalia that they had filled it with over the years.

"I know that it's nothing like your East Hampton estate," Benny felt himself forced to 'warn' her with an odd twinge to his words, but still managing to bite back the small trace of defensiveness. The words hung in the air for a moment as Alison considered them for a moment. A slow smile broke out over Benny's face as he continued speaking, watching the awe shift around in Alison's eyes as she walked beside him, enraptured. "But I know you're simply going to love the interior décor," that was at least one thing he had going for him, style. Even if she had more space and a larger expense account Alison's personal decorator most likely had nothing on Mark's flare for aesthetics—maybe that was one of the reason he was always being called in for commercials at AgencySacks, get the visual shot right for the ad. Whatever it was, Benny knew it was pure genius how everything in their apartment meshed together fluidly into a perfect living environment for two successful young men. A real art form almost, but much more sensible than painting or scribbling inane stories down on flimsy paper. "My roommate, you know Mark," he paused to see a light of recognition ignite.

"Oh, yes," she said, her entire face brightening with a large smile. "How is that sweetheart doing," she inquired with surprising sincerity. Truth be told, she first begun talking to Benny when she noticed him and Mark arrive together at some party in hopes of getting closer to the blonde. Looking back, she realized that it was something about the clear color of his eyes that had drawn her in, so guarded and cold. She though he could be an interesting challenge, try and crack the boy with ice eyes that could pin your very soul down and examine it so perfectly he could call out your every flaw without speaking more than two words to you. But, after chatting with Benny for over two hours and not finding herself bored to tears by what he had to say, not to mention the growing attraction she felt plucking at her delicate little heartstrings, she forgot entirely about pursuing Mark. After all, Benny was easy to understand; he only had two angles, love and money. Mark, well, Alison couldn't even begin to number off all the different directions that boy was spiraling off into.

Now Mark was just an intriguing young man that happened to be rooming with her new boyfriend.

"He was a little, dare I say, intoxicated at our last dinner party," Alison added quietly as they came to a stop in front of the apartment door. A slight wince crossed her soft features; drawing two finely plucked eyebrows together in a wide angled V. Benny's heart gave a little empathetic kick. Alison always hated to see people she liked following her lush of a mother's footsteps.

"He's doing very well," Benny answered slowly, knowing it to be entirely true but he would have said anything in that moment to wipe away the expression on his sweet Alison's face. "A bit busy with his work lately," he added, feeling the bubble of guilt relaxing a bit. Stalling for a moment he searched his pockets for the apartment key. "But," he began just as his fingertip hit metal, "I think it's also because he found himself a new girlfriend," that got a wide smile from Alison.

Benny had been suspecting it for a couple weeks now, though he had yet to meet the lucky lady. Whenever Mark was with a girl, no matter how rare those times were, he always got the same way. Usually he was snappy, fidgety but strangely enough had more of a sense of humor than normal, though it was a little dark. However, Benny was quickly adding a growing number of other symptoms to his list, his favorite being the surprisingly charming mood Mark would be in during the morning. Mark had neither been an affectionate person nor a morning person, so the other day, when he came home to change before work—another telltale sign—and he was all warm smiles and genuine niceties, Benny knew he had had sex with someone special.

"Anyways," he said getting back on topic as he slid the key into the lock and turned it. "He's the one who decorated the place, he picked everything out from the Pottery Bar—" Benny cut himself off as he heard an odd squeaking noise that sounded like springs jostling. Beside him, Alison shifted anxiously wondering what had caused Benny to stop. He waited a moment before hearing the sound again and knew it was coming from the living room. A sly grin tugged up the corners of Benny's lips before he could check himself, forgetting to register an affronted look at exposing his dear Alison to whatever ungodly thing Mark was doing to some girl on their posh couch. Whatever it was, it was certainly making the new sofa springs actually groan in protest to being bent in the opposite direction.

"Mak, Mak mah ongue ing," Benny felt his jaw go slack, that had definitely been a male.

"Shit, sorry Rog," Benny's whole world spun out of control as he heard Mark's distinct voice yelp; frantic to apologize to the young man Benny had been introduced him to that morning as his 'assistant.'

"M-mark?" Benny called out as his hand brushed against the wall, desperately searching for the light switch.

The only thought that crossed Benny's mind was thank god he and Mark and decided to place the sofa facing away from the apartment door.

"Fuck," he heard Mark swear as soon as he flipped on the lights. The sound was accompanied by a quiet thud as he saw a bare foot from over the back of the sofa. It would have been comical if not for Alison's long nails digging into his hand. Suddenly Mark was standing before the couch, fingers quickly working the zipper of his slacks back up, blonde hair mused, a rumpled tie looped around a collared shirt unbuttoned to his sternum and his naturally pale skin stained the faint red color of arousal. Glancing up at Benny, pushing away the messy lock of hair that had flattened itself uncharacteristically against his forehead, he squinted trying to read his roommate's expression. Another hand with long fingers, connected to a body lying on the sofa, gave Mark his glasses before a shirtless Roger slowly sat up to examine Benny from behind the couch.

"Oh my," Alison gasped, releasing her grip on Benny as she put the disheveled state of both young men together and came up with the obvious answer. A little shiver ran down her spine and suddenly even having the mink around her waist was too hot. She watched with wide eyes as Roger shifted on the couch, kneeling on the cushions so that he was facing the couple with bright green eyes half hooded. Cupping his cheek in one hand and pressing an elbow to the sofa, Roger stared at Alison with an annoyed expression. "Hello boys," she whispered with a thin voice as Roger yawned in an entirely put-upon fashion, the offending silver tongue ring catching the light, as the boy didn't make a move to cover his mouth. A soft flush danced over her cheeks as she smiled at them.

"Evening Alison," Mark replied in the most dignified voice he could muster while standing before a respected debutant with a rather painfully obvious erection tenting his dress slacks. He shoved his hands deep inside his pockets, pinching the sensitive skin of his thighs through the fabric to try and temper his desire. Yet, it did nothing as Mark's eyes followed Roger's free hand, hidden from the other couple, slip into the front of his own jeans pressed against the back of the sofa. Roger's legs parted slightly, bent and Mark could just imagine the callused fingers gripping, adjusting himself to the tight pressure as he zipped the fly.

Mark was completely out of control of the situation.

He took a deep breath, slowly working the buttons of his shirt closed.

"'Sup Benny?" Roger added flippantly with a lazy grin as he carded his fingers through his hair, only making matters worse as all the bleached strands now stood on end in different patches and directions. Before Benny could put two words together Roger was off the couch and standing behind Mark with a naked arm snaked around the smaller man's shoulders. However, not even the sight of low riding jeans that just barely clung to Roger's hipbones, the top button undone and no possibility of underwear hiding beneath the tight fabric, could deter Mark from concentrating on catching Benny's shocked gaze.

As soon as Benny glanced at Mark's face he was transfixed. Despite the typically subordinate position of being wrapped up in someone's possessive arms, Mark was clearly reasserting his dominance after being flustered by the unexpected interruption. Benny noted how Roger was the one molded against Mark's back, not the other way around. His roommate standing firm with his expression schooled to be perfectly apathetic. The blithe, taunting grin on Roger's face seemed far more immature and wholly non-threatening after staring into the jagged edges of Mark's eyes. Something in them made Benny's blood run cold, warning the other man not to say a single word against Roger.

Since when did Mark defend his girlfri—well, boyfriend? Most of the time Mark would complain about his girlfriend's every last character flaw and it was Benny who would defend them.

"Aren't you going to introduce me, Benny-wenny?" Alison asked breathlessly with a smile, her calm voice rooting the two men back to reality.

"Alison this is Roger," there was a hard edge to Roger's name as Benny gritted it out as calmly as he could, wrapping a possessive arm around Alison's waist and pulling her flush against the side of his body. "Roger, Alison." Despite the grip Benny had on Alison she wiggled her way out of his arms to greet Roger. Crossing the room with dainty little steps she offered him her hand to the young man.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Roger sneered, taking her hand and giving the young debutant a large sweeping grin and a slight inclination of his head. Mark jabbed him in the side with an admonishing look, ordering him to play nice with the other children.

"Oh Marky," Alison giggled, leaning over to place a delicate hand on Mark's bicep, her fingertips barely grazing Roger's hand. Mark's eyes snapped over in her direction, smiling at her through his teeth. "Wherever did you find him?"

"Actually, Miss," Roger piped up with a wholly indignant look that made Mark's skin crawl. He had no idea what was about to come out of that boy's mouth and despite his best efforts he knew in the end he could not stop Roger from saying whatever he was going to say. "He just picked me up off the street corner where I was living in the big cardboard box with all the other diseased, fuzzy kitties nobody wanted," Mark was pretty sure Roger had been hanging around him far too long.

"He's adorable," Alison stage whispered to Mark, still managing to not directly address Roger.

"Why thank you Muffy," Roger replied for Mark in a falsetto similar to Alison's airy tone, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Yet Alison continued to smile up at him, fluttering her eyelashes and blushing before a slightly confused look flitted across her face. The muscles in Roger's arm strained against his skin as he tightened his grip around Mark, pushing himself closer to the other man.

"No, no it's Al-" she began to correct him, talking down to the young man as if he where a small child. Personally, Mark did not have a thing against Alison. She was just another harmless blonde heiress who had only every said nice things about him and invited him to lavish parties at her estate. But when she took that pretentious tone with Roger, the one only he could use because it was in flirtatious jest, Mark was done watching her clueless responses to Roger's acid tongue.

"We were just about to lea-" Mark had enough of the one sided verbal sparring that was going on and cut Alison off, hauling Roger's arm off from around his shoulders and dragging him in the direction of the apartment door. However, Roger obviously had other plans as he took a step towards Mark's bedroom, twining their fingers together and giving the other man's arm a jerk.

"Go to bed," Roger finished for Mark. "Night you two, don't make too much noise and neither will we," he teased, looking at Alison with a suggestive leer. "Cause you know, that'd just be creepy and, gosh, indecent of us," he feigned shock before Mark's fingers hooked into his back belt loop and hauled him into his bedroom.

"Night, Roger dear," Alison called, giving Roger a little wave, snapping her thin wrist back and forth before turning back to Benny and saying something about liking "spunky" boys.

"Do you seriously want to stay here?" Mark asked as he pressed Roger down into his mattress, straddling his hips and running his fingers along the frayed hem of Roger's jeans, dipping below the waistband.

"C'mon we can freak them out," Roger suggested as his hands gripped thin hips while Mark began to slowly grind against him, teasing the other boy's clothed cock back to life. "Well actually I think Muffy was getting off a little on the idea of us screwing around," Mark huffed a laugh as Roger spoke distractedly, glancing at the doorway to make sure there was no shadow being cast outside of Alison waiting for the show to begin.

"Muffy?"

"All debutants and heiresses have froufrou names like that, Muffy, Fifi, Mimi, Tiffany," it was a lame excuse but it drew out a rare smile from Mark and an eye roll. He leaned down to press an appreciative kiss against Roger's lips, his hips starting to roll a little harder against the lithe body beneath him. "A lot of I's actually, I wonder why?" Roger grinned and raised his eyebrows, knowing exactly why a self-centered brat would want to have a name that exemplified their dominance in a world of classy materialism all focused on themselves.

"But still, Muffy?"

"I just calls them like I sees them," Roger murmured thickly as his head tipped back, lips falling open and tongue swiping helplessly at his dry lips as Mark's blunt thumbnail flicked across his nipple.

"Oh really?" Mark asked playfully, his hand moving from Roger's chest to press against the headboard for better leverage. "Then what exactly am I?" There was an odd glint in Mark's eyes that Roger nearly missed with his head thrown back. Mark was opening up, exposing himself again for Roger to mend. Though Mark would never use the word, and Roger would be damned if he ever breathed it in Mark's presence, but both knew it was a look of the most sincere vulnerability.

"Besides an incredibly adorable cynic?" Roger mocked at first, attempting to take the serious edge off the question as he undid the young man's bedraggled tie.  
"Yes, besides that," Mark replied with a small impatient smile.

"A bohemian in corporate clothing," it was a low whisper, a secret only for Mark to hear lest it be heard by the world. Roger looped the tie Mark had been wearing around the young man's wrists as he spoke.

This time Mark didn't protest.

* * *

Early the next morning Mark was so wrapped up in paper work that he failed to hear the door to his office opening and the warming scent of freshly brewed coffee. He and Roger had been in such a rush to leave the apartment before Benny and Alison woke up that they skipped coffee and breakfast altogether. Now Mark was really regretting that decision but he didn't have time to make his own cup. However, before Mark could even get the words out Roger was headed towards the break room to make a new pot of coffee just for Mark.

"Your coffee, Mr. Cohen," Roger used his well-practiced, professional tone as he gently closed the office door behind him. The slight smile on his lips was lost on a busy Mark would didn't look up from his work until Roger was practically sitting on top of his desk and pressing the cup into Mark's hand.

"Thank you, Roger," he murmured before taking a long drink from the steaming mug, tossing his pen onto the stack of paper to enjoy the rush of caffeine and warmth as it hit his system full force. Swiveling around in his chair, angling his body towards Roger, Mark looked at the man over the rim of the cup. Roger felt a little flutter in his stomach as he noticed the smile actually reaching Mark's eyes for once so early in the day. For a moment he could almost feel the office fall away, and he and Mark were suddenly sitting in the loft, Mark plopped on the sofa with his knees folded against his chest and that smiling hiding behind his cup as he flirted with Roger. The beautiful smile brightening his face and illuminating his blue eyes.

"Shouldn't Maureen be getting you coffee?"

"Awww," Mark pouted as he stood from his chair to look Roger in the eye, gingerly placing the coffee down on the table. He grabbed a manila file folder off of his desk, clutching it to his chest before standing in front of his assistant. Eyes flicking to the door to make sure it was closed, Mark pressed a lingering kiss against Roger's lips. "But she doesn't have half as cute an ass as you do," he said with a mischievous smirk as he swatted playfully at Roger's ass with the folder before turning to shove it in one of the huge metallic cabinets lining the wall.

"Oh my, Mr. Cohen," Roger gasped, jumping off the desk and fainting dramatically into Mark's large faux leather chair. "Help, sexual harassment!" He yelped as Mark rounded on him with a disbelieving look, half-heartedly playing along. It was interesting to see Roger's playful side rather than his quiet, brood-while-you-file persona he had been stuck with for a couple weeks. "I told you I wasn't gay, Mr. Cohen, just bi-curious," he whispered conspiratorially, electric green eyes wide and with a slight grin pulling up one side of his mouth.

"You came on to me," Mark accused him, offering Roger his hand.

"Please," the young man scoffed as he rolled his eyes, taking the offered hand before Mark pulled him out of the chair and sat back down in it. One of Roger's hand found it's way to the armrest while the other pressed against Mark's upper thigh, biting gently into the thick muscle as he leaned close to the other man. "Why would I do a foolish thing like that?" Roger asked, whispering as his warm tongue flicked out to trace along the sensitive skin of Mark's ear.

"Mark," a voice called through the door before it was suddenly pushed open. Mark nearly jumped out of his chair while Roger frantically pulled a fraction of an inch away, grabbing a file off the desk and holding it over Mark's lap. "Maureen called, said you needed help with the Parker Agre—oh I'm sorry to interrupt," Joanne said calmly, though there was a hard edge to the last word as Mark saw her look back to where Maureen was no doubt cringing.

"Sorry, Pookie," she called feebly from her desk, pouting with big doe eyes that had never had a very good affect on Mark but managed to quell the annoyed look twisting Joanne's lips.

Mark visibly recoiled hearing the pet name.

"Hey Roger," Joanne said with a smile.

"Morning Joanne," Roger replied as Mark stared up at him with a baffled expression so clearly written on his face. Joanne was a little taken aback but the earnest nature of his countenance; normally Mark was next to impossible to read. "Maureen made me go help Joanne move some files out of her office and into a storage room at her firm yesterday," he explained, pulling away and allowing the folder to fall into Mark's lap. "Remember, that's why I was late coming back from lunch."

"Oh," Mark answered back quietly before he came back to himself and turned to Joanne. His entire demeanor changed, suddenly all business. "Yeah, Joanne," he said finally managing to tear his attention away from Roger's retreating back. "I had a few questions about the changes, I just want to make sure we're not getting fucked over by the television network."

"Shoot," she said with a smile, taking a seat in one of the chairs set up in front of Mark's desk.

"I'll just get out of your guys way, here's the file you wanted, Mr. Cohen," he placed the folder on Mark's desk, his eyes locking with Mark's.

"Thanks," Mark replied.

He hadn't asked Roger for any file.

The first chance he got, after asking Joanne a question that lead her off on an unimportant tangent, he flipped open the folder. Inside was a piece of paper off of Maureen's neon green_ 'While You Where Out…' _notepad. Scribbled in almost illegible black script was a little note from Roger telling Mark to meet him in the photocopier room on the seventh floor. All of the sudden the short legal consultation with Joanne couldn't go fast enough.

* * *

"Did you get lost?" Roger breathed against Mark's lips with a feral grin splitting his face as soon as the other man stepped inside the dimly light room. Pressing him up against the heavy door, they heard the telltale solid click as the door automatically locked from the outside. Roger's hands wound themselves in Mark's hair, fingertips scrabbling gently against his scalp.

"Corporate perfection takes time, dear boy," Mark answered back calmly, pushing off of the door.

"Whatever," Roger murmured as they slammed up against the opposite wall. There was a dull thud as Mark's hand collided with the plaster, slipping to cradle the back of Roger's head just before it snapped back and hit the wall. Harsh, erratic breathing filled the small room as Mark sucked at Roger's lips, nipping the soft flesh before pressing his tongue against the flat of Roger's. Matching their hips up, Mark gripped Roger's wrists and pinned the to his sides. A little trail of wet, glistening kisses traveled up Roger's jaw line as Mark moved to caress his thrumming pulse.

"I wanna take you out tonight," Roger gasped as Mark's teeth sank into the soft skin.

"What?" He pulled back, releasing Roger. A flicker of hurt light up the green eyes as he saw Mark retreat.

"I," Roger pressed his hand against his own chest before taking a careful step towards Mark, almost like approaching a wounded animal. "Want to take you," he gently pressed his index finger against the center of Mark's chest. "Out for dinner tonight," he finished with a hopeful smile.

"Roger," Mark sighed.

"Hey, I've got some money now, thanks to you," a short peck on the lips. "And I want to treat you to something special," his voice was quiet, almost embarrassed at having a rather large soft spot for the corporate golden boy. Mark glanced up to see Roger's eyes and it was all over.

"Where?" Roger could see his resolve crumbling bit by bit with each reluctant breath he drew.

"Life Café," his grin was full force now.

"Roger," Mark slumped against the copy machine as he heard the name. He had been there before with Collins many times, but that was before, well, before everything changed. "Can you just imagine all the looks we would get?" Mark knew exactly how everyone would not exactly be welcoming to a young man in a tie—nice, white boy, yuppie scum.

"That's half the fun," Roger replied, grinning with the prospect of making a commotion. He would drage out the old Mark, kicking and screaming, come hell or high water. Roger figured that the Life Café was as good a starting place as any. "But, maybe you should tone it down, and lose the fucking tie."

"Alright," Mark caved. "And I'll go incognito," he added, taking pleasure in the way Roger's entire frame seemed to take on a bright quality, radiating outward from some inner light.

"Seven, okay?"

"Mmhmmm," he hummed against Roger's lips before slipping back out of the photocopier room.

* * *

A cool breeze swept through the busy café as the door was pushed open by yet another costumer. The fridge air swirling about Roger's feet, licking at the exposed skin just above his thick-soled boots, ghosting easily through the loose fabric of his threadbare plaid pants. It was almost ten past seven o'clock and Mark was generally never late. Glancing up hopefully from the menu he knew backwards and forwards, Roger caught a glimpse of light reflecting off thick frames and a shock of bright blonde hair. He jumped out of the booth and motioned to a rather awkward looking Mark who stood fidgeting by the front door of the café.

Beautiful role reversal, Mark was like a fish out of water, breathing sweet air that was oddly familiar.

"I haven't been here since I was nineteen with Collins," Mark said with an apprehensive smile as he slid into the booth across from Roger. His feet bumped gently against Roger's as he moved closer to the wall, trying to get away from the bemused couple looking over at their table. Roger nudged back with a small smile, verging on coy. "This is so awkward," he murmured, glancing over at the two women eating an all vegan platter of tofu and cooked vegetables.

"I thought you said you were going incognito," Roger shot back at Mark, staring at the pressed sport coat hanging off Mark's shoulders. No doubt he looked good in the expensive dark fabric, especially the way it was tailored to taper down the length of his thin body, but it was definitely not they type of thing an average Life Café costumer would wear, ever.

"I am," Mark said anxiously, pulling at the faded band t-shirt under the coat. Feeling more self-conscious than he had since he was back in college, Mark began to curse the fucking style magazine he had seen on the way home with an article about artistic flare melding with classy dress—that's where he had gotten the idea to wear a regular t-shirt with a nice sport coat. His head collided with the table as he felt an unusual flush creep up the back of his neck.

"Oh," Roger had not noticed the worn Ramones emblem emblazed on the tan shirt hidden beneath the sport coat. "Nice, Mark," he laughed quietly, appreciating Mark's taste in music. "But isn't that a sport coat?"

"Shuddup," Mark's voice was muffled as he spoke into the tabletop.

"Well at least you've got that cute scarf on instead of the tie," Roger complimented him, reaching across the table to play with the soft fabric of Mark's scarf. Mark lifted his head, blue eyes sparking to life.

"I thought you'd like it," he replied with an earnest smile, taking a little pride in pleasing Roger. Taking a deep breath, focusing all his energy on Roger and away from the other couple who had begun glancing over at them periodically. "So what kinda food do they got here?"

"What can I get you boys?" A flamboyantly dressed waiter asked as he leaned against the table, angling his body towards Roger. "Roger?" He asked with a bright smile, obviously flirting with the young man as he leaned in close with his bright pink pen and pad ready to take down the order.

"C'mon," Roger said tossing the waiter the glossy menu, expecting him to know exactly what he was going to order. After all, ever since his withdrawal he had eaten the same thing at the Life whenever he had the money to afford it.

"Mega burrito with the grilled chicken and a side of fries?" he raddled off with a mock brooding expression, mimicking Roger's usual demeanor.

"See, Mr. Cohen, that's why I come here," Roger tugged at the scarf to pull Mark's attention off of the young man staring at him from across the room. "The amazing service," Roger grinned up at the waiter.

"Sir?"

"What? Me? Uhhh," Mark asked startled by the stiff tone the man's voice had suddenly slipped into. He wasn't ready for the jovial tone to evaporate so completely. None of the words on the menu seemed to make since in his mind as he felt several more pairs of eyes focus on him. "I'll just get whatever Roger's having," he finally said after staring at the menu for a good five minutes trying to decipher the squiggles he knew were letters of the alphabet. He didn't look up until he heard the waiter's footsteps moving away from the booth. "Did he just call me sir?"

"Stick with me and he'll know your name in a week or so," Roger promised.

"Great," oh the perks of the Bohemian life style.

"It's a comfort thing," Roger tried to explain. "Like your daily cup of coffee with a bit of Roger on the side," he leaned across the table, pulling on Mark's scarf to plant a kiss against the other boy's lips.

He was met with firm resistance.

"Rog, what are you doing?"

"Mark, chill," Roger said with a half laugh twisting his words. "Look around, no one is going to care, trust me," his eyes pleaded with Mark to drop his inhibitions and just live life like he had always wanted for just one night. "We're not in the straight laced corporate world, this is Bohemia," a smile was beginning to pull at Mark's lips as he found himself tipping into Roger's eyes.

"Thanks for the news flash, Ted Koppel."

"Anytime," he grinned back, glad to see Mark comfortable enough to start teasing him again. "Now, Mother may I?"

"If you must," Mark sighed with a mock bothered expression as Roger's lips pressed against his in a slow kiss that brought more color to Mark's face than the cold had any chance at doing. So caught up in the play of wet flesh against his mouth, Mark forgot to be concerned about the people who had been watching him so intently that when he heard the voice of their waiter he pulled away from Roger and succeeded in smacking his head against the booth.

"Oh thank god," the waiter sighed, his hand covering his heart as he plopped down two cups of water.

"Wha-?"

"I was starting to get worried about you Roger," the waiter sighed as Roger reached over to Mark who was rubbing the back of his head. "Thought maybe that job Collins got you was beginning to bleed over into your actual life," there was an odd pause as Mark flinched away from Roger's groping hand, giving the other boy a cold glare. "He's not exactly your type, is he?" The waiter eyed Mark up and down. He was somewhat cute but the whole yuppie thing didn't really work for him. "Or anyone in this café's type for that matter," he added, nudging Roger with a grin.

"Excuse me?" Mark asked crossly.

"Nothing against you, Mister," he said though Mark knew otherwise, how could it not be something against him? "Just that I don't think anyone that normally comes here would really wanna know anything more about you."

"Thanks for telling me something I don't already know," Mark snapped back, sliding out of the booth as quickly as he could. Glancing around he saw that now all eyes were paying attention on him. "I'm leaving now," he told Roger calmly as he pulled the scarf tighter around his neck. "I've gone through this once already, don't really have what it takes to go through it again."

"Mark," Roger called, grabbing his leather coat and dashing out the door to follow Mark. "Mark, wait," he huffed as he caught up to Mark half a block away from the café.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I-I didn't think tha—I'm sorry," Roger whispered, wrapping his arms tight around Mark's body. It took a moment before he felt the other boy's arms wind about his waist, be he did eventually. "C'mon, there's something I wanna show you," he took Mark's cold hand in his own, lacing the fingers together before pulling him off in the direction of Avenue B.

* * *

**AN:** It won't stop. I swear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** A Little Business

**Rating: **R

**Summary:** Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe.

**Notes: **Originally attempt for Speedrent (Challenge: _a character has thechance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result?_)…little poetic lisence, nothing dramatic, just info you can't 100 get from the play. Fight! _Still_ not the end.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own, not my characters.

* * *

**A Little Business**

"This," Mark's tone bordered on exasperated, a hard edge creeping into his voice after being pushed hastily up ten flights of stairs by an eager Roger to find himself on the rooftop of the apartment building. Everything was covered in a thin film of grim and city soot, Mark visibly cringed. He tore his eyes away from the filth when he noticed the low wall along the perimeter of the rooftop. It was barely high enough to keep someone from falling over the ledge onto the street below—he took a step back inside the stairwell. "This is what you wanted to show me?" He crossed his arms over his chest, maintaining some semblance of control as he folded into himself and casually leaned against the doorframe to the stairwell. White knuckles clashed with the dark fabric of his sports coat as he twisted the sleek fabric up into a wrinkled mess along the upper arm. "I've seen Avenue B before, an aerial view isn't going to inspire me, if anythi—"

"Shhhh." Roger clamped his hand over Mark's mouth, his own lips pressed into a flat line. Nose to nose, Roger caught the delicate shift in blue as the rare appearance of a small smile managed to reach Mark's wide eyes. He felt the soft lips move against his fingertips, starting at the corners before spreading out into a grin.

"It's not even a nice day," Mark said around Roger's fingers, the sound muffled and threaded through with a subtle mirth. It was true, the sky was not longer a pale blue but instead a murky overcast gray that threaded to rip the heavens apart for a downpour. A clever retort, barely on the tip of Roger's tongue, was cut short when he saw the smiling eyes dart anxiously over his shoulder—a little color draining from Mark's cheeks. Roger followed the gaze to the rooftop ledge.

It clicked.

The grip Mark had on his own arm tightened the moment Roger pulled him a step outside the stairwell. Mark, of course, like anyone else, had certain reservations but irrational fears—that was a new one.

"You're afraid?" His hand fell away from Mark's mouth.

"No," Mark said a little too quickly, retreating back into the safety of the stairwell with a quick half step backwards. There was a short pause as Mark took a deep breath, casting his eyes downward for a moment to ground himself before giving Roger a forced lopsided grin that the other man had never seen before. A shiver ran up his spine, nerve ending firing and pulses speeding up. "Can't we just—" His pale hands instantly flew to his sport coat, smoothing out the tiny wrinkles along the sleeves before plunging his twitching fingers inside the confines of his pants pockets.

"Mark doesn't like heights?" Roger matched the man's step with an advance, electric green eyes lighting up and narrowing as an openly demonic grin twisted his mouth—playful and domineering. Roger had the upper hand and Mark was not entirely surprised to find himself only fighting halfheartedly. If it was anyone else, even Collins, Mark would have clammed up and diverted the other's attention back to the fact that, hey, they hadn't had anything for dinner yet and maybe it was a good idea to go back _downstairs_ to the loft to make something to eat. But, there was something cathartic about allowing Roger to be in control, finally feeling comfortable enough in his own skin to let that piece of himself go—handed over directly to this man.

He _could_ be vulnerable and exposed.

"Roger." There was a hint of pleading lodged in his throat, coming out disjointed, somehow piecing together the butchered job his voice made of the syllables in the young man's name.

"Mark," he replied with the same tone, mocking him a little in an attempt to keep the mood light. When Mark's face remained ashen, eyes focused on the far wall, Roger switched tactics. "Come here." He grasped Mark's hands and laced their fingers together in a tight knit tangle. The slip slide of sweat rubbing against his palm, transfer from Mark's heated flesh, telling that Mark was much more nervous than he let on.

Roger took a step backwards. Mark didn't move.

"Look at me," he said, ducking his head to catch Mark's gaze and hold it.

"This is ridiculous," Mark mumbled, still a little hesitant. There was a gentle tug on his arm when Roger took another step and Mark stumbled forward, their clasped hands knocking against Roger's chest.

"Focus on me, nothing else." Roger's voice cut through everything else that was currently zipping through Mark's mind on fast-forward. Mark took the next step voluntarily. Eyes locked on Mark's, Roger walked backwards toward the center of the roof. After a few shaky steps, they were close enough to the edge to catch a glimpse of the avenue below. Blunt fingernails dug painfully into the backs of Roger's hands but Mark's face remained school in the perfect haughty expression. Together, they silently watched the busy street below. Several cars drove by and a young girl ran out from the apartment building with a bounce in her step.

Nothing happened.

Mark loosened his viselike grip as a low, self-deprecating laugh poured from his lips like honey infused acid.

"See," Roger said with a small smile. Callused fingers wrapped around Mark's chin, tilting his head back so Roger could press his mouth to the other boy's. A soft, slow kiss and Mark's entire body sagged against Roger, all the tension draining from his muscles as they went lax. Their tangled fingers pressed against the leather coat. "Not so bad." The words came out as little puffs of warm breath against Mark's lips. Pulling away with a small nudge of his nose against Roger's cheek, Mark immediately noticed the odd bent to the young man's smile—one he had seen before and was not exactly a good omen. A few quick steps and the Roger was leaning against the rooftop ledge with his best mischievous smirk on display just for Mark.

"Shit, Rog—" Without a second thought, Mark rushed to where Roger had now hoisted himself onto the poured concrete slab capping off the short wall, thick rubber heels of his boots colliding with the brick. Pressed flush against the wall, standing between Roger's thighs, his pale fingers clutching at the tacky fabric, Mark found himself far closer to the edge than he had ever intended on being. He looked up to see a self-satisfied smirk spreading over Roger's face as the young man caught him in a loose embrace about the shoulders.

Just this once Mark let the obvious manipulation slide

"I just wanted to show you this place because it's where I go when I'm feeling," he paused, searching for the right words as his hands came up to idly skim across Mark's freshly shaven jaw line. Mark leaned into the touch, fighting to keep his eyes open and keep his head above the deep end of total surrender. "Kind of like you felt at the Life tonight, alone, forgotten, like a fish out of water choking on air." The pad of his thumb traced over the sharp cheekbone, slowly pressing a heated caress to the already flushed skin. Mark's fingertips ran along the seam of his pants, up the outer thigh before hooking in his belt loops. As he spoke, Roger pulled away from Mark, carding his finger through his wild, half bleached hair. "I come up here when I've hit writer's block and need inspiration for a new s—" A large drop of water splashed against his knee, leaving a dark splotch on the plaid fabric. "You just feel a raindrop?"

"Yes, and now we're going inside," Mark said brightly as if it were the most ingenious idea to have ever graced mankind. He was finished placating Roger with submission and the sudden shift brought back memories of falling, beyond his control. Comfortable or not, Mark could feel the bile rising up in his throat after watching Roger sit so carelessly on the cusp, grounded to nothing in the knowledge that he was dieing anyways so what the hell. With a little too much force, he yanked Roger down from his precarious perch on the rooftop ledge. "I'm not going to let you get sick, okay." Roger stilled when he heard the genuine concern flit about in Mark's voice as it slide up into a higher register of unease.

"No Mark." His voice was soft as his small smile, devoid of any real aggressive defiance or malice—a simple statement of fact.

It began to pour, huge drops of recycled water hitting the rooftop and rusted metallic air ducts that never worked properly with a steady rhythm. Mark gave Roger's arm an impatient jerk when a clap of thunder shook the foundation of the building. Blond strands of hair were plastered to his forehead, clinging to the lenses of his glasses. He pushed them out of the way, slicking the hair back until his hand rested against the nape of his neck. A tremor ran through Mark's body, lighting up his senses and spreading through his entire system like napalm and quicksilver.

"Roger, " he tried again, hands linked together behind his head as he took a step back to shout above the rolling crack of thunder.

Roger was standing in the middle of a rooftop in Alphabet city, arms stretched out wide, mouth open and face turned up toward the heavens—soaking wet. The old baggy green pullover was drenched and clinging to his thin frame, as where the threadbare plaid pants hugging his lean thighs. Squinting through the mess of water droplets smattered across the lenses of his glasses, Mark saw the tiny shiver scale up Roger's body as the young man pushed the hair away from his face. A few longer strands stuck to the clammy skin of his jaw and cheekbones. He was crazy, he was going to get sick, but he was already sick, he was completely imbalanced, in love, indescribably alluring and fucking hot beyond all rational logic.

"You're insane," Mark laughed in disbelief, the sound cutting through the pitter-patter of rain as it started pelting them en masse.

"I know," Roger shouted back and Mark had never seen that shade of bright green before but knew he wanted nothing more than to capture it on film. "But that doesn't explain why you're still here," his voice grew steadily louder as he closed the gap between them, wet lips pressed against the delicate skin of Mark's ear. "With me."

"Trust me." The familiar cynical bite was easing itself back into Mark's tone, comfortable and playful as ever. Roger grinned as Mark pressed his warm hands against the man's cold cheeks. "If those hideously attractive pants were soaked through and pasted to yo—"

"Shut up," Roger said, silencing him with a hot wet kiss full of tongue, teeth and lips infused with cool droplets of rain pouring from the straight line of his nose pressed against Mark's cheek. The taste of warm metal sloshed about in Mark's mouth as Roger licked away the drops of water from his lips, followed by the sweet sinking feeling of blunt teeth nipping at flesh.

"Downstairs, Rog," Mark moaned into Roger's mouth, and Roger followed with his own lopsided grin and rain washed hair.

A little buzzed from the sporadically hot and cold shower that Mark had forced them to take before wrapping Roger up in every blanket he could find, the two tumbled into Roger's bed. Swathed in old quilts and tattered bed sheets, Roger managed to untangle himself enough to wiggle his way on top of Mark's prone body, straddling the thin hips and pressing his hands against the man's flushed chest. Everything was warm and hot to the touch, something relatively rare. The only towel they could find was currently draped over Roger's head as Mark toweled off the drenched hair with quick, deft flicks of his wrists. Satisfied with the way each strand of hair was sticking up in every direction possible, Mark slid the towel around Roger's neck and pulled him down using the terrycloth as leverage into a slow kiss.

Three used condoms and a half empty tube of lube later, Roger collapsed against Mark's chest with a ridiculously wide grin, huffing a few breaths against the sweat-slicked skin. With a groan, low in the back of his throat, Mark shifted a little and eased himself out of Roger. The young man grunted at the loss, his arms wrapping tighter about Mark's thin chest. After tying off the condoms, using the last of his strength to toss them into the wastebasket with a spent Roger clutching at him, Mark pulled up the elastic waistband of his boxers from where they had been imprinting a rather interesting design into the skin just above his knees. Roger's head lulled to the side, pillowed in the space between Mark's neck and shoulder. Pale fingers, still a little sticky, began running through the bleached strands of Roger's hair. With his free hand Mark adjusted his glasses so they sat correctly on the bridge of his nose. Stroking down a few wayward pieces of hair, Mark let his eyes wonder around Roger's room.

The first time he came to the loft with Roger, it was past midnight and he wasn't exactly interested in the décor so much as the person who occupied the room—not to mention the crappy spring mattress said person thought was perfectly suitable for screwing around on. And the next morning he was too bedraggled and baffled that he had actually fucked his male assistant, repeatedly over the course of one night, to notice what was taking up space inside the man's bedroom.

"Is that your guitar?" Mark asked, his eyes now settling on an acoustic guitar leaning against an old dresser on the far side of the room. His fingers caught on a tiny tangle in Roger's hair. Pulling gently at the knot, he watched as it came undone beneath his fingertips, rewarded with a content sigh from the other man.

"Yup," Roger murmured, his head still pressed against Mark's surprisingly comfortable shoulder. "I can sing too." Mark could hear the cocky smile in the young man's voice. "I told you I was an artist, a musician."

"A musician," Mark repeated, swallowing a dry lump that had formed in his throat around the words. A tiny seed of panic settled in the pit of his stomach.

_You're going to fall fucking head over heels for him, Mark. Trust me, this guy's one of a kind, a real Rock and Roll Deity._

_Whatever you say, Collins._

"Actually," Roger said, cavalier and swelled chest as he gingerly pulled his sated body back up into a sitting position, still naked and straddling Mark's hips. The small seed trembled, about to blossom. "I used to be a fucking Rock and Roll God." The last words came out in a hard staccato rhythm, a unique beat all their own—somehow seductive and defiling in one breath.

"No," Mark said matter-of-factly. "No, no, no," he kept saying over and over, making it true with the times he said the single syllable.

"What is it?" A few soothing kisses were pressed against Mark's collarbone as a hand stroked up his bare arm.

"Roger, get off," Mark calmly pushed against Roger's chest.

"Mark what is it?" Roger asked, his fingertips skimming along Mark's face as he tried to read his expression. The slighter man squirmed beneath him like a wild animal ready to run off.

"Get the fuck off me." Before Roger could even process what exactly had happened he was flat on his back, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling.

"Mark?" He felt lost, embarrassed surrounded on all borders by in an endless sea of threadbare blankets and condom wrappers.

"J-just shut up, R-roger." Mark was stuttering again.

"Mark, we, can't we just—"

"Shut up." He turned away from Roger, scanning the room for where Roger had tossed his pants. "Do you remember," he began, voice strained as he bent over to pluck his slacks from behind the dresser. "In that fucked up, heroin addled brain of yours, a few years back." Mark huffed a breath as fumbled with the fly zipper, his numb fingers refusing to work no matter how much his brain was screaming to bolt. "You were supposed to go on a date with one of Collins' friends." The T-shirt he had been wearing was crumpled in a heap with the sports coat at the foot of Roger's bed. "Some young kid on break from college," Mark laughed, a bitter bent to the harsh sound. His scarf, the one he wore for Roger, had been carefully placed on the nightstand. Plucking it up off the stand he wound it loosely about his neck. "A poor misguided soul that was trying to assert himself in the big wide world of New York City," he finished, straightening out the collar of the coat and smoothing down the wrinkles and staring acutely at Roger on the mattress.

Roger felt as if he were on display.

"Vaguely," he answered uncertainly, watching as the last layer of solid ice was packed down inside Mark.

"And," he said, drawing out the word as he fumbled with his shoes, "do you remember you stood me up." Mark slipped out the doorway.

"What's tha-" he called after Mark, the man's exact words yet to sink in. Then they hit full force. Somehow, beyond all reason he had stood Mark up a million years ago and the boy was still raw about it. "Shit." Roger to scramble for his boxers before throwing open his bedroom door. "Mark," he yelled over the sound of his skin sliding painfully against the dirty hardwood floors. Roger careened into the sofa, coming to a halt in the living room. He looked frantically around, not seeing a flash of blond. "Mar—"

"That way honey," Angel supplied quietly from the kitchenette area Roger had overlooked, she pointed a dark blue fingernail in the direction of the open door leading down the stairwell. A bobbing blond head came into view, just about to step outside the apartment building. Bare feet slapping against the linoleum, Roger ran down the remaining flights of stairs.

"Mark!"

"What Roger?" Mark had just stepped onto the busy sidewalk. "Jesus, get back inside," Mark yelped, eyes wide as soon as he turned to find Roger standing in the open doorway wearing on his thin linen boxers. Trying to shove the man back inside the building's excuse for a foyer.

"What? No," Roger said confused, ready to hold his ground.

"You're going to catch a fucking cold and die and it'll all be on my conscience." Mark took the short steps up to the doorway two at a time, the odd concern for Roger burning the back of his throat. One part of his mind, the one currently not choking on the information that Roger had been the one—the last straw—to inadvertently send Mark packing back to Brown to finish his college education and effectively kill his dreams of filmmaking, was wrapping itself around the irrational worry and need to protect Roger—in spite of and in turn because of his flaws. "Get in the building," he instructed, his hands pressing against Roger's naked skin, shoving him back inside. As soon as they were in the silent apartment entrance Mark felt his temper flare up again. "Now, what can you possibly say?"

"Look, I was 20, just dropped out of college, I was young and stupid and most likely high. And then fucking April." Mark felt and inappropriate rush of hatred and jealousy toward the dead woman when he saw the heartbreaking way Roger rolled his lips inside is mouth to bite anxiously. The corners of his mouth crooked up in a half smile. "Even you couldn't have said no to April." His bright green eyes glazed over with an intangibly familiar haze.

"Is this supposed to inspire sympathy?"

"Look, Mark, I'm sorry," he sighed desperately, looking up at Mark with a broken look—dull green merged with acidic neon. There was no sign of emotional response in Mark's eyes when Roger glanced up at the other man's face. "It was nothing personal, I didn't even know you."

"Exactly, and yet I was obviously not even worth the time to get to know."

"Mark, please." Roger reached out and Mark flinched away.

"I wanted it so badly," he began slowly, looking everywhere but Roger. "You wouldn't believe how much I wanted to be this, this thing, this something more." Like the night he called Collins, freaked out of his mind at the sudden loving impulses riddling his body, Mark was at a loss for the art of putting words and sentences together. The words where ripping themselves from his body, coming out in spurts and half syllables. "Someone creative, all raw beauty and talent, someone who could give everything up and devote themselves to their art," he said slowly his pace down, fingertips ghosting over Roger's flushed skin. "I wanted to be someone like you."

"Don't," Roger pleaded, catching Mark's wondering hand between his own two. "Don't say that." He was chewing on the soft flesh of his lower lip until he felt it swell and ache.

"I got scared, Roger," and Roger saw the ice melt away into saline sloshing about on the cusp of Mark's eyes. "It's pathetic and stupid, I know." He fiddled with his glasses, pressing the frames hard against his nose. "But it was too big, too overwhelming, and I was so small and insignificant." The unshed tears seemed to evaporate as his voice took on a steady quality. The pale hand Roger held, twisted and writhed, pulling away in such repulsion that it actually hit Mark in the chest. "There was no one I could connect with. Collins' was there, but he was my philosophy teacher, and I couldn't understand half the things he said to me they were so over my head." Mark allowed the small nostalgic smile to flit across his face for a brief moment.

"I know the feeling."

"He was my only link. Everyone else saw me as some suburban kid trying too hard and failing at every turn," he paused, lacing his fingers together and popping the joints. He had never in his life been this open with anyone—especially some one like Roger, someone he actually could, some he did lov—then again, people he usually slept with ended up hating him. Thus he was on the right track, or so his mind was gathering from bits and pieces of Roger's demeanor. "I felt this burning passion inside but no one else seemed to believe I could do it. I was drowning and everyone could care less."

"Mark,"

"Maybe," Mark said loudly, snapping a bit out of himself, a different Mark coming to the surface. "Maybe if I had met you way the fuck back when, I wouldn't be trapped now," the word—_trapped—_nigh on a sin, burning his cynical tongue as it exploded from his mouth. "I wouldn't be suffocating in my own fucking skin." Mark tugged at the tight flesh stretched over the bones of his skull, pulling at his cheeks wanting to tear off the confines of his own mortal flesh. That thought struck him and suddenly everything seemed absurd. "No." His voice was Mark's again. "You know what, I'm sorry, this is," he broke off, glancing up at Roger. The musician felt his skin burn as the twisted laugh echoed in the entrance hall. "This is just ridiculous."

"You're unbelievable," Roger said, catching the man's arm as Mark turned to leave again. "You've spent so much energy denying yourself for so long, isn't it time you start channeling that drive into what _you_ really want to do?"

"I'm going now," Mark replied, dodging the question as he pulled his arm out of Roger's loose hold.

"You really going to run away from this life again?"

"I haven't even begun to live "this life" so how can I possibly be running away from it?"

"You know exactly what the fuck I mean," Roger challenged, taking a step toward Mark. There was nothing really threatening about a half naked young man with the freshly fucked look still somehow clinging to his glowing skin.

"I can't do this right now." Mark turned and left, tugging the scarf wound about his throat a little tighter.

* * *

Mark had never noticed how loud a sound the heavy apartment door made when it collided with the plaster wall.

"Jesus, Mark," Benny said, rounding on his roommate as soon as the young man was inside the kitchenette. He stopped to stare into the freezer hoping a carton of ice cream would materialize before his eyes if he stared long enough. Pushing the freezer door closed, Benny stepped in front of Mark with the familiar hard-set interrogation glint lighting up his dark eyes. Fuck him and his uptight neurosis. "What do you think you're doing with that boy?"

"Such the wrong fucking time to ask, Benny," Mark replied with a twisted smirk and a toxic laugh, sidestepping Benny and heading directly for his bedroom. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and just fall asleep for a week, maybe a month, or at least until Roger forgot everything stupid thing he had just said.

"Mark," his voice was nervous, disbelieving and wanting Mark to make everything better with a few simple words of denial. "Are you actually _caring on_ with him—that Roger boy?"

"Fucking him, you mean?" Mark asked bluntly, glancing over his shoulder just to see Benny's disgusted face as he continued, "I was, a few hours ago actually, but not so much anymore."

"What?"

"I'm going to bed." Mark knew he had a special talent for running away from arguments.

Inside the safety of his room Mark kicked off his shoes and crawled into his bed. It didn't feel too big or lonely, just a little cold and as he rolled over onto his side he felt the harsh cloth of something not his bed sheet grate against his cheek.

The tie he confiscated from Roger.

He stared at the offensive object, contemplating whoever had given shape and form to such a tragic piece of fabric. Better yet, his mind turned over the face and soul of the man responsible for buying it and bringing it into his life.

Maybe if I had met you back then… 

Mark fell asleep with Roger's tie wrapped around his neck, _the corporate noose._

* * *

It was far too fucking early in the morning to be at work without a cup of coffee in his hand. In fact, it was too fucking early in the morning to change into proper work attire. Or at least that was what Mark's mind must have rationalized, but it had only sunk in when he was already on the elevator up to his office wearing yesterdays rumpled sports coat and T-shirt. Then again, he wanted to feel the burn of everything raw, no caffeine to brighten his vision and take the edge off reality, not to mention embarrassment. Effectively ignoring Maureen's barrage of personal and wholly inappropriate questions about what, or who, rather, he did last night, Mark smiled when he notice Roger had not arrived at work yet. He still had a while to think of something brilliant to say to the young man, be it witty, cynical, cutting or desperately pleading—didn't matter, whatever felt right when he saw the dull green.

Even as Mark stumbled, face first with a nice resounding smack into the solid mass of his office door, momentarily forgetting to push instead of pull, he did not see the need for warm, sultry, roasted coffee beans, liquefied into a sweet, sweet beverage that would be amazi—

"Fuck," Mark sighed as soon as he fumbled opened the heavy door to find a disgustingly bright-eyed Collins lounging in his expensive office chair. He could not even bring himself to cringe as he stared blankly at the dirty heels propped up on a towering stack of legal documents and marketing copies. Bleary eyed, Mark promptly dropped his briefcase onto his left foot, swore, and stumbled inside his office. Leaning up against the now shut door he allowed the pained expression to contort his face, drawing his brows together and accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"Eloquent as always," Collins murmured with a too-wide smile for seven o'clock in the morning. "You haven't had your coffee yet I see." Obviously. Mark felt his stomach churn with a nasty flop as he watched Collins' smile brighten a few watts. Maybe he would just have one sip of coffee if Roger brought it—_It's a comfort thing_. He squashed the thought before it had time to congeal in his brain, turning his mind to concentrating on the words falling from Collins lips. "I've always wondered what it would be like to sit behind a corporate desk in a real office." A half assed sardonic grin pulled at Mark's mouth as he set his briefcase into one of the extra chairs and shoved Collins' feet off his desk. They landed on the floor with a thud. "Next you know I'll be wearing a designer three piece suit and power ties," Collins said as the swivel chair swung around toward Mark who had crossed around to the back of his desk. Collins' eyes immediately flicked down to look at the garment looped around Mark's throat. "Speaking of," he began, the smile growing inexorably, "isn't that wonderfully hideous thing Roger's?"

"Shit." Mark got tangled up in the cheap material of the tie as he yanked it undone with a few agitated tugs. The tragically blue paisley thing hung limp at Mark's side, his fingers curled around the fabric, refusing to let it go despite the knee-jerk reaction to hurl the tie in Collins face or possible cut it up into a thousand tiny scraps—pull each thread out one by one and make something better out of the carnage.

"Don't worry about it Mark, I've tried Angel's heels on before." Mark just stared for a moment, blinked a few times as the words shot through his brain rapid fire before trickling out the other ear without actually processing—far too early in the fucking morning for trans jokes.

"What do you want?" Mark asked straight out to the point, not up to playing mind games with Collins.

"Well, in theory," Collins began, slipping into the catalogue of 'professor' mannerisms, including the voice he usually reserved for students he particularly liked. "There are usually two people involved in the creation of a heartbroken musician, specifically the one that is currently sulking around my loft." Mark always appreciated the way Collins phrased things, even if Mark didn't always understand what exactly he was getting at—but this, this he got immediately, not matter how fogged over his brain was. "But again, this is all in theory." There was a drop of acid in the playful grin.

"So you're here to convince to go running back to that burnt out junkie?" It was only a lesser dose of guarded cynicism that what Collins was used to hearing from Mark. At least there was something to work with.

"No," Collins said plainly, "I'm here to knock some sense into that brain-dead, blond head of yours."

"Move," Mark said in a flat voice, leaving no room for what his mind was currently dubbing 'Collins' matchmaker antics.' With a rigid arm, he motioned for the professor to get up from the chair. He collapsed into the seat, sighing contentedly as it all but swallowed him up in its plush faux leather cushioning.

"Are you really going to blame him for the way your life has turned out?" Mark tried his best to ignore Collins, block out the calm voice, so rational and logical. The words, unfortunately, were processing rather well in his mind and as intended plucking at the few heartstrings he had left. Collins crossed around to sit in one of the chairs opposite Mark across the desk. "You had a choice, Mark."

"I know, okay," Mark snapped. "I know," he repeated a little quieter, sitting bent over on the edge of the office chair with head cradled in his hands. The tips of his fingers started to turn white as he pressed them against his temples, rubbing the skin in a soothing circle.

"Just because you and Roger have shitty timing doesn't invalidate everyth—"

"Why do you suddenly care about how I live my life, after all these years of moral apathy?" The sheen of ice had glossed over the blue of Mark's eyes, a pinprick of hurt chipping away at the solid block. Collins dragged his hand over his mouth, tugging at the yielding flesh of his lower lip. He hesitated before speaking, Collins never thought to censor himself. Immediately, Mark sat up.

"'Cause now it's not just your life you're fucking with, it's Roger's too."

Mark had never heard Collins use that tone with anyone, a low dangerous tenor that seemed to work far better than coffee at waking him up.

"You want to know what he told me a couple days ago?" Collins asked, continuing before Mark could reply. "It was something about you, how he started noticing your eyes sizing up everything, focusing in on certain aspects for possible shots to film." He calmly folded his hands together and pressed them against the desktop. Mark felt something akin to hope fluttering up beneath his breastbone. Listening to every well thought out word, Mark fidgeted with Roger's tie, spinning it around his wrist and looping the fabric about his thumb to form some odd bracelet. "Said he could almost see your mind silently planning out camera angles for different scenes." A melancholy smile twisted around the corners of Collins' mouth. Mark remembered seeing that same sad smile the day he began packing to go back to Brown for the new term after his last ditch effort of a blind date. The smile brightened as another thought rolled off his tongue, completely uncensored as usual. "Even admitted it got him hard just thinking about your honed intensity, especially when it was all focused directly on him," he let a low laugh roll around in his chest as he finally saw a faint blush scaling up the back of Mark's neck.

"Tom," Mark said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Rog said it's inspiring to just watch you, said something, in all his love induced triteness, about finally finding perfection in a pinstriped muse." Before Mark even had the possibility of understanding the ramifications of that statement, his office door was tentatively pushed open and a disheveled bleached blond head popped in with a cautious demeanor cramping up his entire body.

"Mr. Cohen, I hav—Collins, what are you doing?" The façade was dropped almost instantly.

"Rog—" Collins, Mark decided a little later when his brain was fully functioning, looked sheepish as if he had been caught red handed with a mouth full of cookies from the broken glass jar.

"I told y—" Roger began, his hollow cheeks flushed and eyes set in a hard glare. He cut himself off, turning toward Mark with a slight inclination of his head as the expression dissolved into total indifference. "I'm very sorry to interrupt, Mr. Cohen, I was not aware that you had a guest," he said with a bland smile and a lilting, stiff and formal voice that reminded Mark of Maureen taking a call from one of their lesser cliental.

Mark wanted to rip the forced smile clean off of Roger face.

"Actually, Rog, I was just heading out," Collins said slowly, looking from one boy to the other. "Later," he said briefly, before slipping out the door, turning to the right in the direction of Maureen's desk.

"Thanks," Mark said lamely as soon as they were alone and Roger was across the office shoving the steaming cup of coffee he had brewed in the break room into Mark's open hands. It wasn't until Roger caught his wrist that Mark realized that it was probably a bad idea to reach for the mug with both his hands.

"Is that my tie?"

* * *

**AN:** Still not done.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** A Little Business

**Rating:** R

**Summary:** Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe.

**Notes:** Originally attempt for Speedrent (Challenge: _a character has the chance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result?_) with use of poetic lisence. I'm so sorry about the wait…forgive me.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not my characters.

**

* * *

****A Little Business**

A long pause stretched between them as Mark's brain tried to think of a more appropriate answer than the obvious truth that, oh yeah, he might have just maybe fallen asleep with the tie on because it may or may not have smelled like Roger and then forgot to take it off that morning. He was at a definite disadvantage, forced to think quickly while Roger waited with his arms folded over his chest, lips set in a stoic flat line. Mark had never been boxed into a corner before by anyone, at least not since graduating from Brown—that was his role. Mark felt immeasurably small, seated in the office chair while Roger stood before him, all long lithe limbs and squared shoulders. The hard-set blue eyes focused on the slight tremor of his own hand sending tiny waves of coffee splashing against the rim of the dark green ceramic mug. Eventually, a few short, faltering words tumbled out of Mark's mouth in one breath.

"Oh yeah, yeah it is," Mark said, quickly placing his cup of coffee on the desk to pull the tie off. The rough fabric grated against his pale skin as he tore it off instead of unwinding, leaving a patch of pink flesh on the underside of Mark's wrist. He felt the slightest shudder beneath his feet as Roger's heavy boot collided with the floor, taking less than a half step closer to Mark.

Roger's knee-jerk reaction to seeing Mark injured.

"Why'd you…?" Roger was carefully shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a nonchalant manner, attempting to disguise his concerned movement and level his footing. Still, Mark did not fail to pick up on the twinge in Roger's voice that bordered dangerously along the lines of ornery.

"I-I just brought it in to…" Mark paused to stare at the tie, unsure if he wanted to return it to its rightful owner—oddly enough, it had begun to grow on him. The corners of his mouth curled up in a taught smile, thin plastic stretched over white teeth, as he turned his face to look at Roger. "To return to you." He held the tie out for Roger; the fabric waded up in a loose ball in the center of Mark's palm. Blunt and bitten nails scrapped against Mark's skin as Roger took the tie out of his hand. The tips of Roger's fingers lingered a little, seeming to trace a small crease in Mark's palm. Roger's eyes were fixed on Mark's face and not the hand or the tie.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Cohen." Roger held his gaze for a moment longer before finally looking away. He rolled the fabric slowly around his forefinger, the course material rubbing against half formed, and decaying calluses. After balling up the tie, he shoved it in his pants pocket.

"Thanks for the coffee," Mark said, glancing down at the paper work spread out on his desk, covered in chicken scratches and smudged blue ink. His pale fingers anxiously began to skitter over the documents and folders, shuffling them into organized distinct stacks.

"It's a comfort thing." Mark heard Roger say under his breath as the musician fumbled with the large presentation board he was caring under his arm. A soft smile flitted across Mark's face before he could stifle the impulse. Luckily, it appeared that Roger was far too rapped up in his own business to notice, waiting patiently for his boss to move the cup of coffee and clear the appropriate area. "I have the revised storyboard for that band's tour promo." Roger laid out the foamcore boards on Mark's desk, strategically avoiding his boss's gaze. "The director said you can and are encouraged to make any and all changes that you see fit." He finished arranging the storyboards and took a step away from the desk, focused on the first sequence of shots that had been drawn up. "However, he wanted me to remind you th-"

"Roger." The young man rolled his lips inside his mouth at the sound of his name. "Look at me." There was no trace of anger or annoyance in Mark's tone. It was a simple demand, or rather; it was a softly intoned request Mark's clenched jaw had mocked up as a demand.

"Mr. Cohen," Roger said, tilting his head to the side as his eyes flicked up to stare just to the left of Mark's face. Not actually making eye contact but managing to give the illusion. "I had initially come in here to make a request." There was a long pause as Mark watched the gears in Roger's head spin dangerously fast on a well oiled axel, turning back and forth between two different cogs. A quiet rustling of fabric and whine of leather filled the dead air as Mark shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Roger took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice starting flat and even before working itself up into a baritone frenzy, "I was thinking that it would probably be in your best interest, you obviously needing some time to figure out whatever the fuck it is that you want from me, us, whatever." All of the anger seemed to leak out of Roger as the final word left his lips in a slow, even breath. "If I was transferred to work somewhere else in the building." He took a step toward the door, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "For the time being." One of Roger's hands was clearly fiddling with the tie hidden in the cloth depths.

"Roger," Mark called, stand up and rounding his desk. Roger mirrored his advance, taking another step away. "Collins, he-" Mark paused, standing beside his desk with one hand still resting on the surface, grounding him. "He mentioned something you said, something about me—" Roger drew a thumb to his mouth, the blunt nail fitting between his lips as his teeth began to anxiously chew at the ragged cuticle.

"Mark." It was the first time Roger used his first name since stepping inside the office that morning. That dull sheen was back glazing over Roger's green eyes, the spark flickering away as Roger stared Mark directly in they eyes. "Please."

Mark could not deny Roger.

He could never deny him.

"Fine," he breathed. "Just talk with Maureen and she'll help to arrange everything for you."

"Thank you," Roger replied before quickly slipping out of Mark's office and heading to Maureen's desk.

Mark leaned against the side of his desk, glancing down at the storyboards for the promo. Several long minutes ticked by as he tried to focus on the small drawings tacked onto the board, but his eyes seemed to be continuously making the short journey back to the closed door. With a resigned sigh, Mark wrote down a few notes on a yellow Post-it, placed it delicately over one of the panels and stepped out of his office.

"Hey Mark," Maureen said brightly as he stepped out from his office. "I guess poor Roger was getting a little restless being trapped with you all the time?" She tried to joke around with him, nudging an elbow between his ribs and grinning. "I know I would," she laughed and turned to look at him when she did not hear at least a disgusted scoff or sense an eye roll. Her laughter faded as she looked up at Mark's face.

"Maureen," Mark began, his eyes fixed on Roger's retreating back as he headed toward the elevator, watching the young man jab several times at the already illuminated down button, "are you doing anything tonight?"

* * *

The first thing Joanne noticed the moment she stepped into the bar was that her girlfriend was not in fact surrounded by a throng of half naked women. This seemed to be a huge improvement over the last time they had gone out for drinks after work and Maureen had somehow wound up dancing on the bar top for an hour with four other women. A smile was beginning to form as Joanne pulled off her coat and stared to make her way over to the bar. However, as she got closer, a disheveled blond head just over Maureen's shoulder came into view. It was her girlfriend's ex, more importantly her girlfriend's ex-boyfriend and now boss. Joanne had to resist the strong urge to roll her eyes; with Maureen, if it wasn't one thing it of course had to be another.

"I'm so sorry, Jo," Maureen paused to press a short kiss to her girlfriend's lips, bracing her hands gently on Joanne's shoulders to hold her back for a moment. "But," she continued, grinning brightly and drawing out the short word. "I couldn't just leave him alone right now. Come on, sweetheart, look at him." She motioned with a sweep of her arm over toward Mark.

Maureen's boss was seated on a bar stool petulantly spinning a half eaten cherry around in his empty shot glass with the tip of his forefinger. The cherry stem had long since been ripped off the fruit and was sitting, tied in a tight knot, next to the glass. A little blue umbrella, still folded up and bound by a tiny pink rubber band, was stuck behind Mark's left ear. Joanne could tell by the movement of his lips that he was murmuring the same thing over and over again to himself, a mantra of drunken guilt written all over his face in a spindly scrawl of contorted features.

"It's pathetic." They watched Mark come back to reality long enough to ask for a vodka, neat. "I mean, we're in a fairly popular club full of scantily clad women and all Mark can do is stare into his drink." She gaped at him for a moment longer, hoping he would look up from his glass as an attractive blonde woman approached the bar wearing a string bikini top and bright pink pleather hot pants. The woman ordered her drink and then walked by Mark with a slow shimmying gate, curved hips swaying to the heavy beat undercutting the music.

Nothing.

"It's just wrong." Maureen shook her head, her lips turned down in a disappointed grimace. "So very, very wrong."

"Don't worry, it'll be fine," Joanne said, pulling Maureen's hands off her shoulders, cradling them in her own and delicately kissing her knuckles. Her soft look faded, turning to concern when she looked over at Mark. "Now, do you have any idea what happened to put him in such a state? Has he said anything?"

"Well…" She trailed off, silently considering all the different reasons Mark Cohen would be this miserable. It wasn't something to do with work because the deal with that pop-rock band was going great, plus she had yet to hear Mark break down and yell at someone. In fact, starting a couple weeks after Roger showed up in the office, Mark seemed to be mellowing out a little. The only thing she could come up with dealt with the aspect of Mark's life she no longer knew every gory detail about. "He hasn't been seeing anyone, or at least anyone I know about. And, well, I know he didn't care enough about his ex to _still_ be depressed over their breakup," she paused, staring at Mark for a moment. Joanne watched her girlfriend's eyes narrow as if were trying to gauge something almost tangible about the man. "He's still not drunk enough yet to spill his guts," she said finally after staring at Mark for almost a minute.

"When exactly will he be?" Joanne asked discreetly before pulling up a stool along side Mark. She motioned for the woman working behind the bar and ordered a large glass of red wine. After considering her two companions of the evening for a moment, Joanne called the bartender back and requested to purchase the whole bottle.

"Probably two more drinks, if I remember correctly," Maureen whispered over Mark's bent head, taking her place on his other side. The young woman leaned in closely and ran a comforting hand through the blond strands of hair sticking up at the crown of Mark's head. She began to rub small circles over his back in a soothing manner that reminded Mark a lot of his mother. There was something about the gentle touch that made him feel safe and reassured. He felt like he should tell her everything that was wrong with the world, splay himself open on the bar's countertop only to have her to sew him back up with kind smiles and carefully worded encouragement.

"Stupid Roger fucking Davis." Both women turned to look down at Mark's hunched shoulders as a long string of curses started to pour from his lips in a torrent of regret, all centered on Roger Davis.

"Oh, well I guess I was one off," Maureen joked with a wide smile as she stole a large sip from her girlfriend glass of wine. She pulled a face before passing it back, managing to slosh a few drops over the brim. Mark finished his drink, popped the cherry in his mouth and was about to motion for another when Joanne caught his hand mid-air. With a gentle hand, she pressed his back down onto the bar top.

"What is it about Roger?" Joanne asked calmly, ducking her head to try and catch Mark's attention.

"Roger." The name bubbled out of Mark's mouth in a short hiccup of warm affection and sorrow. He seemed to collapse in on himself as soon as the last syllable fell silent.

"Great Jo, we've got ourselves a weepy drunk," Maureen whispered as she reached behind the bar, fumbled around for a few seconds before grabbing a half empty bottle of Absolut and a clean shot glass. "I don't understand." After quickly unscrewing the cap and taking a swig, she poured another shot for Mark. "He never used to act like this when we'd go out." She slipped the bottle into her large purse before throwing the bag over her shoulder, the picture of nonchalance on a bar stool, shoulders hunched and intently turned toward her friend.

"How the fuck could I have blamed him?" Mark asked Maureen as he spun around on his chair, taking the proffered glass and making short work of the alcohol. Unknown to Mark, Joanne was glowering over his shoulder, staring down Maureen who merely shrugged with an innocent smile. Both their attentions, however, were quickly diverted back to the man seated between them as another long string of words started forming what could have been construed as coherent sentences. "I had a choice, the only choice, it was all up to me to choose. I could have stayed here but, oh no. I had to, of course, once again, fuck myself over," he paused, cradling the glass in his hands. His cheeks began to take on a bright pink tinge, the flush spreading slowly from his face down his neck. Soon enough his collarbone was stained a light red as he continued babbling. "And he," Mark swallowed thickly before continuing, "he just wants me to be me, the one me who is like him but not…really like him—more like me, like him, halfway between us both." He looked over at Joanne with desperate wide eyes. "You know?" She stared back unsure how to respond, attempting to piece together what Mark had just said and the gravity of it. "Oh fuck," he said, once again sagging onto the bar top, blond head pillowed by his folded arms.

"Mark, are you still talking about Roger?" Joanne asked, staring pointedly at her girlfriend over Mark's slumped shoulders as Maureen stuck her finger in Mark's used shot glasses.

"Wait." Maureen paused, licking a few drops of vodka off her finger. "Roger Davis, as in your assistant?" Finally catching on, Maureen echoed back Joanne's question in a slightly higher register.

"Maureen." He turned back to face his ex-girlfriend, reaching out to her and finding his fingers wrapped up in the soft material of Maureen's silk sleeves, tugging and twisting mercilessly. "Oh Maureen, I slept with him," Mark whispered, staring down at his hands tangled up in the expensive fabric. "Many times." He glanced up at his secretary from beneath knit brows like a little child who was finally owning up to his long list of crimes and ill-gotten gains of pleasures. "And it was so fucking good." A lazy grin spread across his face as his eyes slid shut, memories filling his intoxicated mind. He released her sleeves and pressed his hands against his thighs, balling into fists at the extra material bunched around the knees.

"Pookie, you like boys?" Maureen was pure shock, nearly dropping the shot glass onto the bar top. She leaned in close, an impish smile beginning to spread across her lips as she stared at her ex-boyfriend suddenly illuminated in a whole new light. A shock of regret ran around the edges of her expression as a thought of all the possible lost opportunities hit her. "Why was I not informed of this when we were dating?"

"Maureen, honey bear, please," Joanne said through a tight jaw and strained smile, "not helping." She turned her attention back to Mark, placing a hand on his shoulder to turn him around to focus on her. "Mark, what happened?"

"He and I, we, I was in college and he," Mark began tripping over his words as his hands flitted away from his pant legs and began spinning circles on the bar top with the knotted cherry stem. "It's a big mess, Jo, I'm so sorry," he apologized, glancing up at Joanne unable to even comprehend how to start explaining the twisted path he had followed leading from a failed blind date back in college to that bar stool on a Wednesday night with two lesbians.

"Start at the beginning, when you first met Roger, and go from there," Joanne suggested, giving his shoulder a short squeeze before removing her hand to take a sip of her wine.

"I-it was the summer before my sophomore year at Brown and I was having these serious doubts about going back. I mean I could have been working in the city, you know, getting real experience on set. Even if I was just a PA." Mark smiled to himself, untying the cherry stem and pulling it apart. "So, I came to see what it would be like living in the city with the guest philosophy teacher, Tom Collins," he said, following Maureen's example and reaching behind the bar for a bowl of cherries he knew to be hidden out of sight beside the bottles of alcohol under the lip of the bar.

"That sweet guy who came in this morning?"

"Yeah, him. Collins was kind enough to introduce me to the whole Bohemian life style, where I would, hopefully, fit in as an aspiring filmmaker and auteur." His expression fell flat as he spoke with retrospective wisdom coloring his words.

"A Bohemian Mark?" Maureen just barely stifled a short burst of laughter, clamping a hand over her mouth. She moved her hand away, pressing it against her cheek with fingers curling to pull at the corner of her lip. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, pressing a kiss to Mark's flushed cheek. "But, can you imagine our Mark and Roger sharing a dingy loft in the middle of Alphabet city, starving for their art and probably fucking their brains out?" She asked, lips still pressed against Mark's cheek before she pulled away. A wicked smile before she wrapped her hand around Mark's chin and turned his head toward her. "Pookie, you would die without a designer coffee table and matching coasters."

"Again, not helping, Maureen," Joanne chimed in, pouring herself a second glass of wine.

"Of course, I didn't fit." Mark popped a cherry into his mouth and chewed is slowly as he spoke, adding to the slight slur chasing down his words. "But, you know, no one really gave me a chance," he said quickly, trying to defend himself under Joanne's unblinking, analytical gaze. "So, I went back to school the next year, followed my parents' plan and became this." He motioned to himself, hands sweeping down his body, tugging at the suit coat and fingering the t-shirt underneath.

"Ah, but who exactly was it that did the soul sucking?" Maureen asked with a twinge of debasing glee, brushing the end of Mark's nose with her fingertip.

"Maureen." Joanne snapped, spinning Mark away from her and jamming the heel of her shoe into the rotating axis of the bar stool, effectively preventing Maureen from pulling Mark back around continue taunting. She paused for a moment, taking another sip of the wine before continuing with, what she hoped to be a halfway reassuring tone. "How exactly does Roger play into all this." However, her voice came out curt and domineering as she tried to wrench the young man back on topic.  
"Well," Mark began, his mouth turning from a flat line into a manic smile pointing to her with another cherry. "And this is a real kicker, Joanne," he said with a sardonic laugh tainting his words as he placed the fruit in his mouth. Mark inclined his head and leaned in close. "Collins, well, he made this last ditch attempt to try and keep me in the city a week or so before school started—he set up this blind date with a friend of his around my age who was also an artist," he paused to swallow the cherry. "A musician," he said with a flick of his wrist and an accompanying flourish of the cherry stem.

"Roger," Joanne supplied, finally grasping the whole picture.

"Yup." He placed the waxy cherry stem between his lips. "But he stood me up," he said with an oddly bright expression. "Which, by he way Maureen," he began, looking over his shoulder back at his ex-girlfriend, "is why I hate musicians, or why I did." Mark slowly turned back around, chewing on the stem. "I don't even know." He spit the mangled stem back out and grabbed for a new cherry.

"So you never met him?" Maureen asked, leaning on the bar and angling her self around Mark's shoulder.

"Yeah, so when Collins called me about a month or so ago looking for someplace his roommate could work I didn't even think to make the connection between Roger and my mystery date."

"So you're fighting now because you blame him for not being there to keep you in the city, what, almost seven years ago?" Joanne continued piecing the story together and laying it out to check if she was fully understanding the sheer idiocy of men, at least this one in particular.

"Even though it was really my choice, yeah," he responded quickly before a low groan slipped from between his lips. "I'm so fucking stupid." Mark pressed his hands over his face, fingertips rubbing at his eyes before sliding down to cradle his face. "I really just wanted to be pissed because I finally found someone else I could maybe blame." He look at Joanne, appearing so much younger than his real age, so completely lost. "And the things I said to him." He paused, sucking on another cherry. "I've never, ever said anything like that to anyone before."

"I find that hard to believe, Mark. I've heard some of the nasty shit you say to a few choice commercial directors," Maureen said, taking another sip of Joanne's wine with a haughty smirk.

"No." Mark slumped over, pulling the paper umbrella from behind his ear and tearing off the pink band. "I mean I was open. I let him see me, pathetic little me." He began to open and close the little umbrella, twirling it between his fingers and watching the bright colors blur together. "How could Roger want to be with some whiny brat from the suburbs?" Still spinning the umbrella between forefinger and thumb, he grabbed slice of lime that had been discarded in the bowl of cherries. "How could he possibly, possibly love me?" Mark dropped the lime onto the bar top. "Why did he even like me in the first place?" In a spray of citrus, Mark stabbed the fruit with the sharp end of the small paper umbrella and let it stand.

"Mark," Maureen ventured, covering one of his hands with her own. He shook it off.

"I don't even know how to really be with someone who—someone who actually knows me." He pulled the umbrella out of the lime. "I mean that's why I dumped her." Mark refused to look over his shoulder at Maureen, instead looking up at Joanne with a blank expression. Behind him, Maureen stared at the side of his head incredulously.

"I thought you said you brok-" Joanne blinked as the information processed through her brain.

"We'll talk about that later, Pookie." Maureen cut her off quickly with a sing-sung response masking her anxiety, again reaching out to try and place a placating hand over Joanne's.

"I didn't even know he was a musician until yesterday. I don't know anything about him except for what Collins told me," he said more to himself than either woman sitting beside him, inside his own world of self-pity and regret.

"It's hard to let go of our rather not so desirable mannerisms, selfishness for example," Joanne spoke carefully, still looking over Mark's head at Maureen who was sitting petulantly in her bar stool staring back. She directed her gaze back to Mark, trying to console him with a few choice words. "Especially when that particular trait is a rather large and necessary component of your job." It was a hollow excuse but it did manage to soothe a little of Mark's guilt and anxiety. "You just have to listen sometimes and Roger, I know Rog, he'll open up and you'll be on even ground."

"I've spent so much time making this image, this shell that it starts to seep into my soul, how can I go back?" Mark pressed his hands flat against the bar top, staring down at the blue veins beneath the skin. "How do I convince myself it's okay for him to see me like this, this mess?" He drained Joanne's glass of wine.

* * *

A loud metallic bang and a low whine jolted Collins awake, dragging him away from a sleeping Angel and casting aspersions on his roommate for being able to sleep through the apocalypse as well as its untold aftershock. He paused in front of the musician's door and heard nothing but his slow deep, rhythmic breathing. Collins turned and began to stumble down the dark hallway, before stubbing his toe against the corner of the dilapidated couch in the pitch-black living room. Finally recovering, favoring his left foot, he managed to reach the door without any further injury to his person, or his bare feet. Collins was completely prepared to verbally ream out whomever it was that thought 'hey, maybe three o'clock in the morning is a good time to come over and hang out,' on a Wednesday night. With a firm jerk, Collins yanked the door open as obnoxious florescent light flooded the living room of the loft.

Everything clicked into place and Collins felt the urge to roll his eyes.

The blond head bobbed in and out of focus as Collins' eyes adjusted to the blinding artificial light. Try as he could, Collins seemed unable to clearly see Mark's face. However, it may have been the young man's weaving stance that was giving Tom such a hard time centering his vision.

"Boy, what in the hell d—" Tom asked glaring at the young man swaying in the doorway through squinted eyes.

"I wanna speak to Roger," Mark demanded, slurring a little on the first syllable of 'speak' but otherwise he was able to maintain some semblance of composure. "Now." He punctuated the word with a shove as he tried to duck under Collins' outstretched arm. Tom managed to easily block the drunken man's stumbling advance with a side step. Mark stared at the solid mass of Collins blocking his way into the loft. He murmured a quiet, "let me in, Tom." When there was no response, Mark took a step back. Collins could see the young man trying to calculate a new plan of attack before suddenly he surged forward on unsteady legs in an attempt to muscle his way inside.

"Woah, Mark," Collins said with a poorly muffled laugh twisting his words. He had placed a single hand on Mark's thin chest, effectively blocking the man's entry into the loft as well as preventing him from face planting on the hardwood floor. Grabbing the younger man's slumped shoulder, he carefully steadied him with both hands. Collins ducked his head in order to be on eye level before speaking calmly. "In your current state, that would probably not be the wisest idea," he said with a small smile as he maintained eye contact with the obviously inebriated blond.

"But." Mark appeared unable to comprehend what exactly it was preventing him from seeing Roger, physically as well as rationally. He began to pull anxiously at the fingers of Collins' large hands pressed against his clavicles, trying desperately to pry them off. "But I came here to see my Roger," he protested loudly, gritting his teeth violently before taking a deep breath. The pressure against his wrists quickly dissipated as Mark backed away, arms folding calming across his chest. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment before gaining back some motor control, speaking in a surprisingly even voice. "Please, Tom, just let me talk to him," he demanded, a cool air of confidence shrouding around his entire disposition for a brief moment. Tom watched speechlessly as Mark slipped so easily into a wholly different persona, smoothly transitioning to a new tactic. So different from the manic man who had come banging on his door to try and talk to his ex. However, as the silence stretched on between them, Mark crumbled, eyes softening as he stepped closer to his old friend. "Just," Mark began. He almost appeared to be pleading. "Just would you let me see him? For a sec?"

"Mark." Collins held his hand up, trying to no avail, to silence the other man with the placating gesture. Mark, however, just continued to attempt to convince Collins that he really did need to speak with Roger, urgently. "Mark." Collins's voice was strong and bordering dangerously near the baritone of harsh and reprimanding. It was a low pitch that demanded Mark's attention, regardless of his impaired mental state. "I'm going to get you a blanket and you can sleep it off on the couch, okay?" Mark stood transfixed, straining to focus carefully on Collins' every word. "Okay?" Collins asked again, louder with an edge that may or may have not suggested bodily harm if the terms were not agreed upon by both parties. Mark seemed to snap out of his reverie, bending to the immovable, and generally good-natured, will of Tom Collins.

"Fine," he replied, his whole body appearing to sag as he conceded to the compromise. Collins stepped out of the doorway, finally granting Mark safe passage into the loft. Feet shuffling in awkward little steps, Mark crossed the threshold slowly as Collins left to go and retrieve a blanket from down the hall. "Always the fucking spoilsport," Mark muttered as he pouted his way over to the shoddy sofa, taking up a battered throw pillow and clutching it to his chest. He sat quietly on one of the taped cushions until Collins came back and tossed a dingy looking comforter at the younger man.

"Get some sleep and I'll see if Roger will grace you with his presence in the morning." Collins did not think that it was absolutely necessary to notify Mark that he was still completely dressed, though a little rumpled, and that he was also still wearing his rather nice shoes to sleep in. His current state of overdress did not seem to matter to Mark as he tugged at the corners of the throw pillow before tossing it aside and shaking out the comforter.

"Think he will?" Mark asked, naivety pulling up the corners of his mouth in a soppy bright-eyed smile that Collins thought belonged only on the face of a sweet child completely unspoiled by greed, guilt and sex. He wrapped the comforter around his shoulders and stared up at Collins' face, waiting patiently for his astute judgment of Roger's quasi-predictable character.

"Positive."

"You're a good guy, Tom," Mark murmured as he rolled up on the creaking couch, a few old rusted springs shifting loudly under his body. "A really good guy." He continued to whisper over and over, eyes drooping as he cradled the throw pillow, hands fisted in the edge of the comforter.

"Yeah, okay, Mark. Go to sleep," he ruffled the disheveled blond hair before slipping back to his room where Angle lay awake waiting to hear what was going on between the two mismatched lovers. As Collins disappeared down the dark hallway, Mark was overtaken with the urge to throw the blanket off and wake Roger. However, Mark felt far too warm and almost comfortable enough to drift off into an unusually peaceful sleep. Eventually, he decided that Collins' idea to wait was the most advisable course of action at this particular juncture. Or, it could have been the fact that after a few minutes Mark was dead asleep and for a short time, calm.

After a few hours of what quickly dissolved into sporadic sleep, tossing and turning, Mark's lungs began to feel compressed, overlarge inside his thin chest. They felt as if they were swelling and pressing hard against his ribcage, expanding unnaturally in his body. His skin began to prickle and sweat beneath the multiple layers of heavy fabric weighing down on his tight chest. Mark could not stand the stuffy heat any longer and threw the thick blanket over the side of the dilapidated couch.

He needed to get out of the loft.

Mark stumbled around the dark living area of the loft, trying to negotiate his way to the row of large windows across the room without disrupting a myriad of junk strewn about the floor. He managed to quietly find a partially open window and clambered out onto the wrought iron fire escape leading to the alley. The cold metal felt so soothing to his balmy flesh, seeping through the thin cloth of his blazer and shirt, chilling his skin. It was vastly more uncomfortable but the cool air blowing gently on his face helped to further sober him and was well worth the discomfort. Also, he was not sure how much longer he could manage to be in the same loft as Roger and bared from speaking to him, let alone blissfully curling up in bed with the musician.

With that sweet thought tumbling around in his head, Mark began to doze off again when he heard a quiet scoff, followed by the faint sound of what could have been the comforter being folded and then tossed somewhere. Over the low windowpane he peered inside the loft, seeing only a small glowing circle pulse on and off, a lit cigarette jammed between a young man's tight lips. He could hear the man breath deeply, inhaling the smoke before exhaling with a muffled cough. Coiled springs creaked to life as someone sat down on the particularly loud and vastly more abused end of the old couch. He heard a rustling and the crinkling of a plastic bag. The couches springs squeaked painfully for a moment before the pressure of the body was removed and shuffling feet against hardwood grew louder as the person approached the window.

"Mark?" Roger's voice was sharp and surprised as the young man froze, body halfway through the open window, perched on the wide ledge with is knees press against his chest. Mark watched silent and unmoving as Roger processed the odd scene laid out before him. There was Mark, fully dressed in a disheveled suit coat, the same outfit he'd worn on their last date, red eyes and sprawled out on his fire escape in Alphabet city. After the initial shock passed, a few more words tumbled out of the man's mouth, twisted a bit by the cigarette dangling from his lips. "What are you doing out on the fire escape?" Roger slowly finished climbing out of the window as Mark struggled to string a few intelligible words together. Now that he finally had the chance to talk to Roger the words seemed to be just beyond his fumbling grasp.

"Rog—" Mark's mouth was suddenly drier than he could ever remember it being, he began to compulsively swallow desperately wishing that he had another shot of vodka at hand. His fingers began to flutter around restlessly, searching for a place to settle in some appearance of ease that Mark was desperately lacking.

"You're going to freeze," he commented nonchalantly, snubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray conveniently located on the ledge. Once is hand was free of the cigarette Roger motioned for Mark to scoot over with the impatient flick of his wrists and a couple of shooing hand movements. All the young man could do was stare in disbelief at the musician standing over him with a grimace. Roger, dressed in a beater, his paper-thin plaid pants and completely unlaced combat boots, was reprimanding him for being underdressed for the New York weather. "Mark," he said, an undercurrent concern edging into his voice when Mark did not respond or move.

"I can't—" Mark blurted out, his pale hand pressed tight against the side of his face, the tips of his fingers curling around a sharp cheekbone and caressing the corner of his tired eyes. "I don't—" He cut himself off before a heavy sigh deflated his lungs, his body slumping in on itself. "I don't know how, Rog," he said quietly, glancing over at Roger as the other man settled down beside him on the fire escape. Roger was just far enough out of reach so that the two where not touching at any point along their bodies. Mark pulled his knees to his chest, shoes grating against the metal slots of the fire escape. Forehead pressed against his folded legs, Mark could feel Roger's eyes raking over him.

"Exactly how much vodka have you consumed tonight?" Roger asked with a thinly veiled expression of sardonic amusement. He cocked an eyebrow and leaned in a little too close as if to smell Mark's breath. Mark watched Roger shift a few inches over to where he sat tucked up in a ball.

"Probably about the same amount of cigarettes you chain-smoked," Mark replied slipping back to defense, motioning toward the overflowing ashtray Roger had forgotten on the window sill that lead out onto the fire escape. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wanted to shove them back in. He hesitantly watched Roger's reaction, taking stock of the other man's expression and allowed himself to breath a little easier when the other man took the comment in stride.

"Touché." Roger mouth suddenly changed from a flat line into a wide grin, the brilliant smile lighting up his face with a dim glow of his old flirtatiousness. Or at least that is what Mark hoped the beautifully twisted smile meant. After that, Roger fell silent for a moment and pulled something out of his pocket. "Uh, don't tell Collins," Roger said, holding up the small plastic bag full of what Mark only assumed to be weed and a few papers. Mark watched Roger for a long time, eyes fixed on the musician's deft fingers, they were covered with a few new red, angry blisters Mark knew had not been there this morning at the office.

There were a few drawn out minutes of quiet between the two in which Mark pulled impatiently at the fabric of his pants, unfolded and refolded his legs several times. The space between them was filled with the pulsing sound of New York City traffic and music drifting over from some nearby apartment or late night bar or club. Mark found it hard to even breathe for fear of disturbing the nearly tangible peace that had settled over the two, let alone try and initiate a conversation. Eventually, it was Roger's voice that broke the melodic ambience of the city.

"When I was eighteen I got this scholarship to NYU," Roger began, focused solely on rolling his joint perfectly. Mark watched Roger's pink tongue flit out and rung along the edge of the white paper. "It paid for everything, tuition, room and board, even my text books." He finished, and lit up, inhaling deeply as the tip of the joint caught fire and glowed a deep orange. "Plus, it brought me into the big city where I was finally going to devote all my time to study music." His fingers formed a chord on an invisible guitar neck as he strummed the air with a self-deprecating smile curling up his lips. Holding the joint in one hand, Roger started to pull anxiously at a loose thread on the hem of his beater with the other. "All I had to do was maintain a certain GPA in order to keep the scholarship, which was pretty easy but the summer between my sophomore and junior year the Well Hungarians got really popular in a few of the local clubs," Roger's cheeks hollowed as he took a long drag from the joint. A small plume escaped his lips as he drew the smoke into his lungs. "I just stopped caring about studying and grades, I mean, shit," the smoke poured out from his lips as he exhaled finally. "I thought I'd already made it so why did I need to waste my time in school. So I dropped out to focus on the band." He took another deep drag, the thick smoke encircling his head and seeming to cling to the bleached blond tips of his hair. "I think that was the summer you came down from Providence," he said with a tight voice, offering the joint to Mark who chewed anxiously on his lower lip before refusing. "I was so fucked up out of my head, Mark." He looked over at Mark for the first time since he had begun. Roger stared for a moment; Mark's hand was a few inches away from where his own free hand lay on the iron slots of the fire escape. It felt almost like he was intruding on something, something private that Mark was experiencing. He could not d anything but look away and wait for Mark to take the leap and make the first tentative touch. "I didn't—" Roger cut himself off as he heard Mark shift a little beside him, taking in a deep breath and moving a fraction of an inch closer to the other man. The musician waited anxiously, a fingertip brushed against the edge of his hand. Roger was unsure how he was supposed to respond.

"I'm sorry," Mark whispered, the sound was barely audible above the dull hum of electricity coursing throughout the city that never sleeps. There was a long pause as Roger processed the sincerity of Mark's words. It was very obvious the man sitting next to him did not say them too often, the syllables sounded awkward and rough as Mark's tongue fought to form them properly. Before Mark could speak again, a thousand babbling excuses and elaborate apologies already half formed in his mind, a hand wrapped around the back of his neck stopped all the half-baked ideas mid plot.

"Trust me?" It was a simple question, spoken in a solid, almost self-assured voice but the possible ramifications of Mark's answer were endless. Roger watched Mark's eyes flit over his face, searching desperately for something he eventually found inside the deep green eyes. The nod Mark gave in response was almost unperceivable as he watched Roger raise the joint to his lips. "Just kiss me and inhale." Roger placed the burning end between his teeth, carefully biting down to secure the joint. Callused fingers tightened their grip around the back of Mark's neck, pulling him in for an illicit laced kiss. Another rough fingered hand pressed against Mark's jaw, tracing the hard line from ear down, thumb pressing at the corner of a pouting lower lip. Feeling more than a little awkward, Mark struggled with where he should place his jittering hands. He eventually settled for placing them on Roger's bent knee, blunt fingernails digging into the faded fabric as he leaned in closer to the lithe warm body. Mark felt himself being dragged under a sweet current of hedonism as he opened his mouth around the joint and press his open lips against Roger's. His hand slid down Roger's thigh to press against a solid, sharp hipbone. A warm breath of acrid smoke was blown into Mark's mouth and he inhaled just as Roger told him. The odd taste filled his mouth and burned its way down his throat into his lungs.

"A three piece suit shotgunning with one of our very own little boho boys? Ay, Guapo, I never thought I'd live to see the day."

* * *

**AN: **Yeah, I've got nothing. I'm so sorry, again, for the very long wait...if there is anyone still reading this, that is. :D


End file.
